Unbreakable
by ProjectKITT
Summary: Our favorite weapons specialist is tough, strong-willed, and a force to be reckoned with, but what happens when the stress of an internal battle becomes more than even he can bear alone? Sequel to 'The Catalyst' but can be read alone.
1. First Mission

_Well, here we are - the second and final installment of 'The Catalyst' series (which, if you have not read 'The Catalyst', fear not as this story is designed to be read alone). Much like its predecessor, it will be Ironhide-centric but this time around we are alsi going to see Ratchet facing some issues and struggles as well. I hope you'll enjoy the journey and feel free to comment & fave below!  
_

 _"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." –C. S. Lewis_

* * *

Ironhide fired off another shot before taking cover behind a fairly sizeable rock. His armor glinted in the bright sunlight, and he spun his cannons to try to cool them faster.

The firefight he was in was mediocre at best, really nothing more than a skirmish in an unimportant swatch of desert, and add to that the fact that he was basically just a foot soldier and it was a recipe for boredom for the weapons specialist. He had wandered away from his squadron a little while ago, because if he could not help lead the fight then he would rather just be on his own, but he understood why he was being placed on assignments like this. He needed to understand how the Autobot protocols and chain of command worked before he could hope to take on a role as a field commander with this faction.

Not that any of the Autobots had ever actually said that he was going to be a field commander, but of the skills he had that would be most useful to them—weapons design and military strategy—they were giving him primarily field assignments rather than engineering work and so he assumed that they were wanting to take advantage of his expertise in the latter area.

Or at least the veteran warrior liked to think so. He had been adapting well to being a member of the Autobots, and although he was fine right where he was, if he was completely honest with himself he knew he was eventually going to get a bit bored if they did not move him on to something better. He was the type of the mech that needed to feel challenged and have enough autonomy to be able to accomplish things the way he saw fit. In fact, he had been that way since a fairly young age—fiercely independent and with a strong desire to have the power to make a difference.

That was actually why the black mech had gotten into designing weapons. He had seen for himself as a youngling how just the _threat_ of force could right a wrong, and it turned out that the work itself was challenging enough to provide him with the mental stimulation he needed.

But there was no sense in dwelling on things of the past. Ironhide quickly scanned his surroundings, locating another Decepticon soldier that was quickly dispatched by a blast from his plasma cannon. He did not dwell on that fact either, instead twirling his cannons again as he simultaneously looked for the flash of distant gunfire that might alert him to a more active fight somewhere else.

But the weapons specialist saw nothing, and as he looked out over the vast expanse of empty desert, for a fleeting moment he could not help but feel that his life was the same. Almost always alone, having no real or known purpose, and... and there was something else too, but he could not clearly define it at the moment. It was almost like he somehow... _identified_ with this place. Which was odd, because he had no history here.

Ironhide shook his head in dismissal, forcing himself to push the thoughts aside. Primus, why was he being so sentimental? This was exactly why he needed to keep his processor occupied—otherwise the obtrusive notions did not stop. He huffed before drawing in a vent of warm air, turning to head back the way he came and meet up with his squadron. They were probably wondering where he was or what he was doing.

However, he never completed the turn.

A blast from an unknown assailant's weapon hit Ironhide squarely in the back, knocking the large mech forward. He would have caught himself had a second shot not hit him in the side, this one burning through the paint on his armor and scrambling the electrical circuits he used for balance. He sent out a distress signal just before slamming into the ground, though he was unable to verify if anyone received it...

/* * */

The skies were clear blue, and the weather perfect for flying even if such good visibility was not so good for remaining hidden. But at the altitude he was at, he would go unseen, unheard, and nearly undetectable.

His task was quite simple, and rather boring—with the latest in Decepticon cloaking technology, Starscream was merely to observe and document certain identifiable characteristics of the Autobots involved in the fight and then tabulate how often the same mechs were seen. It was part of an ongoing project to estimate the number of fighters in the Autobot forces.

But, when he circled around to identify a particular mech that was all alone, Starscream quickly realized that he did not need any identifying markers to know who this mech was.

And he would not have guessed in a hundred decavorns that he would see this particular individual in such an insignificant and rather frivolous fight such as this.

It was Ironhide.

While many members of the Decepticon ranks now talked of Ironhide as a traitorous brute or a weak old-timer too gullible to resist Autobot brainwashing, Starscream himself did not actually subscribe to those ideas. After all, rarely did the silver flier see a mech make decisions based on wise self-interest rather than pointless blind loyalty, and if Ironhide believed that being a part of the Autobot cause served him, then Starscream could respect that. He did not believe that it was the intelligent choice, but he respected it.

Though that did not mean he was going to give the mech a free pass.

Starscream fired off a low-powered round while he was at the right angle, quickly switching to a more powerful weapon that would have more of an impact on a mech of Ironhide's size. That shot hit its target only a second later, before the black mech would even know where the first came from.

Starscream knew he would have to act fast, as any other mechs in the area might now be aware of his presence. It was hard to mask gunfire.

However, he did not land right away. Ironhide was on the ground now, and Starscream circled above him as he pondered what to do next. He had not exactly been expecting a stroke of luck such as this, and he wanted to be sure he used it to his best advantage.

Perhaps, with this, he could even edge himself up ahead of Shockwave as the favorite. After all, Megatron would _certainly_ be very pleased to hear of Ironhide's capture.

" _Commander Starscream, reporting,"_ the silver Decepticon transmitted through a comm link as he finally transformed and landed, his feet lightly touching the sand.

" _Go ahead, Commander,"_ the generic voice of a Decepticon dispatcher responded.

" _Please inform Lord Megatron that I have..."_

Starscream paused, suddenly rethinking his approach.

" _Inform him that I have nothing of interest to report here,"_ he continued instead. _"I have collected all relevant data and will be returning shortly."_

" _As you wish, Commander Starscream."_

Starscream ended the communication, walking toward the incapacitated mech that lay before him.

No, he was not going to tell Megatron. He had a better idea.


	2. The Cure

"How long since his signal was cut off?" Ratchet asked as he and three other Autobots sped down the steep sand-covered embankment in vehicle mode. It was getting dark and Ratchet gunned his engine to make better time.

"Two breems," the blue sports car known as Blurr responded, easily keeping up. "However, he has not been seen by his squadron for at least 15 breems."

"What the frag was he thinking?" Ratchet ranted more than asked. "And why did his squadron leader not report it?"

"I don't think he even noticed," the dull green off-road vehicle Brawn replied. " _I_ didn't notice. It was pretty intense out there for a while."

Ratchet huffed quietly to himself in aggravation. This was how mechs got killed. And although this particular squadron took on only the smaller and easier fights to allow the newly-minted warriors to gain some experience before moving up in the ranks, keeping track of each other was one of the basics that should have been drilled into their helms a long time ago.

Bumblebee pulled ahead of the group, the terrain thankfully level now. "I've got a visual. He's over here."

Ratchet saw him then and transformed into robot mode, jogging the rest of the way to the clearing as he sized up the situation. "Bumblebee, circle the area and make sure no one else is here that we don't know about."

"I'm on it, Ratch," the yellow mech replied as he banked right and spun away from the group.

Brawn and Blurr also transformed into robot mode, but Ratchet did not pay much attention to them as he trusted them to do their jobs while he focused on what he needed to focus on.

Ironhide was lying in a clearing with his front on the ground although Ratchet could tell that the mech was conscious. However, what struck the medic as most unusual was the fact that an assailant was nowhere to be found. Nor did surveillance data indicate that anyone but Ironhide had even been in this area since the fight began.

But looking at the injury on Ironhide's shoulder, it was clear that the mech had not done it to himself.

"Ironhide, are you all right? What happened?" Ratchet asked as he finally reached the black mech. And, being the medic that he was, he quickly made mental notes of his observations as he waited the few seconds for Ironhide to respond.

Ironhide was venting a little hard, but Ratchet would expect that considering the circumstances. The weapons specialist also had his hands under him as if he was prepared to push himself up, but so far he had made no attempt to do so. And looking again at the mech's shoulder, it would seem that the blast had come from a fairly powerful weapon as the paint was scorched all the way down to the metal, the usually-rugged alloy itself discolored from heat exposure.

The location of the injury was notable as well—the shoulder and upper back area was usually heavily armored on most mechs, making it a less than desirable area to target. However, Ironhide's comm happened to be located under those panels and the blast had obviously fried it. It could have been nothing more than a lucky shot from a long distance, but it also could have been that someone had known exactly where to hit him.

But Ratchet pushed those thoughts aside as Ironhide started trying to get up. "A Decepticon snuck up behind me," the black mech panted. "Hit me in the back. I'll be fine."

"Did you see who it was?" Ratchet asked, watching the weapons specialist carefully as the mech seemed to be having some difficulty getting up.

"I don't know," was the clipped response. Ironhide stumbled onto his knees then, although when Ratchet moved to help, the black mech waved him away.

"Ratchet, I'm fine—" Ironhide protested as the medic steadied him anyway.

"Not from what I see," Ratchet replied. "Here, let me help you—"

But as soon as Ratchet began to hoist the larger mech up, Ironhide harshly shoved him away. "I said I'm fine!"

Ratchet lifted his hands and silently backed off, giving the clearly agitated mech some space. But as he watched Ironhide shakily get to his feet, Ratchet suspected that the weapons specialist was not truly angry at him. Rather, the seasoned warrior was likely frustrated at having been caught off guard so completely in the middle of a relatively mundane fight.

Ratchet glanced at the other two mechs, nodding that they could begin the journey back to their squadron. Ironhide seemed ready to follow them now, and although Ratchet would be keeping a close optic on him, he would give the weapons specialist some time to cool off before he pushed for a post-combat exam.

/* * */

A few joors later, in the med bay, Ironhide sat quietly on a berth as Ratchet examined his shoulder. The weapons specialist had calmed down like Ratchet knew he would, but the medic sometimes wished that Ironhide would be more reasonable when he was upset. The injury would have been a bit easier to treat had he been able to perform first aid shortly after it happened. Now he had to wash off all the dried energon before he applied a burn dressing, when he could have applied it right away had Ironhide not been stubborn.

And it was not really the extra work that Ratchet was concerned about. It was the fact that it would have healed better and had less chance of becoming contaminated. But regardless of the circumstances, it still appeared that the injury would heal just fine.

"Well, it's looking as good as it can tonight," Ratchet addressed the larger Autobot. "I'll have some painkillers for you for the night, and we'll finish the rest of the post-combat exam in the morning. Report here before anywhere else."

Ironhide stood up then, taking what Ratchet had offered him and seeming relieved that he could go. "Thank you, Ratchet," he said quickly before he turned to leave.

Ratchet nodded, glancing down as Ironhide walked past him but then watching the black mech as he exited the med bay. Ironhide had left at a brisk walk, but Ratchet knew that the mech was often uncomfortable being the center of attention, even when it came to something as innocuous as a routine medical exam. But for all Ratchet knew, Ironhide had never even gotten a single exam done in all the time he spent with the Decepticons. Or at least, Ratchet suspected so based on how good the weapons specialist was at treating his own injuries when he first defected.

But that was in the past now, and Ratchet had a few more post-combat exams to finish tonight before he could retire to his quarters.

/* * */

Of course, Ratchet was not surprised to find Optimus Prime waiting in the hallway for Ratchet to finish his shift. And Ratchet did not even need to ask what Optimus was concerned about—the red and blue mech had always taken an interest in Ironhide, probably because the veteran warrior's history was so enigmatic and unique among Autobots, and so it was not unusual for Optimus to check up on him.

"Optimus," Ratchet greeted him.

"Ratchet," the Autobot leader replied back, "you look tired."

Ratchet snorted. Somehow Optimus was genuine enough to state the obvious, much to Ratchet's amusement. "That's because I am," he retorted. "Luckily for me, more than one mech felt the need to get their afts handed to them today."

Optimus smiled gently. "I know that you would not trade it for what you had."

"You're right. I wouldn't." Ratchet glanced away momentarily, thinking back to the orns when he used to work in industrial labor. "But that doesn't mean I don't wish that mechs would use some common sense sometimes, particularly that scrap-headed ex-Decepticon you seem to think so highly of."

Optimus cocked his helm at that. "Ironhide must have gotten himself into trouble?"

"He certainly did," Ratchet detailed. "First time in a long time, and it seemed to be a case of not watching his own back after he had the bright idea to leave his squadron. It will heal, but I'm sure it hurts like the Pit."

Optimus nodded. "I feared that he might become complacent as a Class One. He no longer expects to come face-to-face with an enemy of his own skill level."

"That could be," the medic replied. "He probably wandered away in the first place because he was bored and looking for a fight of his own. It's too easy for him with a large team."

"Clearly it is. And he is accustomed to being in a leadership position, although I cannot grant him that yet."

That last statement was not entirely true, Ratchet knew, because Optimus could appoint anyone to any position he wanted at any time, however the Prime had made it a habit not to play favorites. Ironhide would have to work his way up, and it really was not wise to grant any new recruit a high-level position until one could be absolutely certain of their loyalties.

Or at least, that was what other Autobots would think if Ironhide was granted a leadership position too soon. Ratchet was sure of the mech's loyalties, but many other Autobots would understandably not be.

"Are you going to move him up anytime soon?" Ratchet wondered. "He may not be completely familiar with all the protocols yet, but I would think he would be able to pick those up as he goes."

Optimus nodded again, taking a step back. "I believe I will. He should be capable of moving to Class Three."

Class Three, the highest warrior rank that was not a leadership position. It was still a jump, but any mech would understand it considering the skill Ironhide already had. It also meant he would have a smaller team.

"That should be good for him," Ratchet thought aloud. "Hopefully it will teach him that he has to pay attention again. Primus knows he doesn't listen to me."

Optimus smiled again. "We will see."

* * *

 _Chapter 2! I apologize for the delay, I am actually still working on the outline and I don't want to get too far ahead of it. Plus it is the busy season at work, so... ;)_ _Anyway, I have a general idea of how this story is going to go, it's just a matter of working out the details. Oh, and I also changed the title of the first chapter, because it will go better with some of the next chapters.  
_

 _Well, I hope to see you in Chapter 3! KITT signing off! :3_


	3. Shadows

Ironhide had not intended to go to recharge right away when he got back to his quarters—in fact, despite the fact that he was indeed very tired, he had planned to stay up for at least a few more joors to satisfy a need he had to take a drive—but before he even knew what happened, he was waking up on the berth in his own quarters.

To the sound of a very loud _crack_.

Ironhide onlined his cannons instantly, the heavy weapons whirring to life in a fraction of a second as his fight or flight response kicked in. But the veteran warrior quickly realized that there was no enemy, and that it was dark and he was alone in his quarters. The eerie flashes of light and the steady thrum of rain hitting the opposite window indicated a thunderstorm that was passing overhead.

 _Primus_.

Ironhide powered down his cannons, taking a few deep vents to try to calm himself. But even after almost a full breem his spark was still pulsing wildly in his chest, the effects of the flight or fight response seeming to linger longer than usual.

But it would certainly settle down. How long had he been out, anyway? Had it been joors?

Ironhide checked his chronometer, seeing that it was indeed very early in the morning the orn after his last mission.

 _Frag it_ _all_ _!_ Ratchet must have put a sedative in with those painkillers. The weapons specialist did not even remember lying down.

And as much as Ironhide wanted to simply tuck himself against the wall and go back to recharge, he got up off the berth, trying to forcibly settle his still-trembling frame. His processor was more forcefully urging him to get outside, before anyone would be out and about to see him.

Ironhide glanced around his quarters for a moment, watching the shadows on the wall, before he turned and headed toward the door. He moved carefully as he still felt just a little weak from whatever Ratchet had given him, though he imagined it would be wearing off soon.

Stepping out into the hallway, he shut the door quietly behind him, not wanting to attract any attention.

Luckily the base was pretty well empty this time of the orn, and Ironhide did not run into anyone as he made his way down the several stories to the ground floor. He stopped when he made it to the bottom, lingering by the bright red exit sign, taking a moment to vent lightly and again calm his neural system. He usually did not feel like this, so he tried to push it aside before heading out. It was just a drive, he told himself. He would be back shortly.

Pausing only a moment longer, Ironhide pushed open the heavy doors and stepped outside. The rain was still coming down relentlessly, pelting his frame with the sensation of pins and needles.

Why tonight, of all nights? Did he _have_ to go?

But Ironhide could not fight it. He transformed into vehicle mode and sped off down the empty streets.

/* * */

Ratchet had gotten an early start by morning, already attending to a post-combat exam for Ultra Magnus. The chartreuse medic wanted to get through as many of the exams as he could this orn so he did not have to pass any on to Jolt, as Ratchet would be switching to his part-time laboratory position by tomorrow and Jolt would be responsible for anything he did not get done.

But usually, Ratchet did not have to leave anything for him. Or if he did, it thankfully was not much.

One mech in particular he wanted to make sure he saw sooner rather than later, which was why he had told him to come in the morning. It was the only one who had taken a heavy blow the previous orn and who—like Prime himself—seemed to have some sort of aversion to medical care.

 _Ironhide_.

And of course, it was always the mechs that thought they were tough who really needed the medical care.

Ironhide was built like a tank to be fair, but no mech was invincible. Ratchet knew that even the weapons specialist could only take so much of a beating, even if the mech would never admit it. It would probably be a good idea for Ratchet to do a more thorough exam this time just to make sure he had not missed anything that Ironhide was not telling him.

Ratchet glanced at the time as he began finishing up with Ultra Magnus. Speaking of Ironhide, where was he?

Just then, as if he had been privy to Ratchet's internal conversation, the black weapons specialist walked into the med bay. He glanced around for Ratchet, then headed toward him once he saw him.

"Good, you're here," Ratchet said as Ironhide walked up. "Have a seat over there. I'll be with you shortly."

Ironhide merely nodded, walking over to the berth Ratchet had indicated and then sitting down on it. And while Ratchet did focus pretty much all of his resources on the patient at hand rather than the next one, he could not help but notice how very tired Ironhide looked. The mech had closed his optics pretty much as soon as he sat down, something that was not really like him.

"All right, Magnus," Ratchet said, turning back to his larger patient. "We're almost done..."

/* * */

Ironhide had still been tired by late morning, although he had managed to get a few more joors of recharge after he returned to his quarters. He had then reported to the med bay as ordered, somewhat relieved that he would not be assigned to any missions that orn.

He found Ratchet already there, the chartreuse medic seeing to some other post-combat exam for Ultra Magnus.

"Good, you're here," Ratchet had said when he saw Ironhide step into the med bay. "Have a seat over there. I'll be with you shortly."

Ironhide had simply nodded, walking over to the berth Ratchet had pointed to and then sitting down on it. He closed his optics to rest for a few breems as he waited silently for the medic to finish with Ultra Magnus, filtering out any unnecessary sensory data as the noise of the med bay was something he did not want to hear right then. His processor was already buzzing loud enough from the lack of sufficient recharge and he just wanted to get this over with.

He did not even realize that someone was talking to him until the mech also gently shook his shoulder.

"Come on, Ironhide, look at me..."

The weapons specialist onlined his optics, seeing the medic looking down at him. He also realized that he was lying flat on the berth already.

"Good," Ratchet said, reaching for some piece of diagnostic equipment.

Ironhide furrowed his brow. When exactly had he...?

"You were tired, clearly," Ratchet spoke up then, apparently sensing the black mech's confusion. "I had Ultra Magnus help me."

Well, that explained it. Ironhide glanced around, making sure there was nothing else he had missed. If he was completely honest with himself though, he knew he was not putting a lot of focus on his sensors right then. His thoughts were on that early morning drive, and he just could not stop thinking about it.

"You're awfully quiet this morning," the medic pointed out when Ironhide failed to say anything, scanning the black mech from his helm downward. "Especially compared to last night."

Ironhide glanced at him then. "Last night?"

Ratchet did not answer right away, instead fiddling with the controls on his scanner. "Last night after the mission. Remember? You all but threw me across the clearing."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that."

But Ratchet just shrugged it off, as if he had only brought it up to make conservation. "It's all right. I get it a lot in this job."

Ironhide merely nodded, not having anything else to add to that.

"I'm going to examine the repairs to your shoulder," Ratchet said next, stepping off to the side. "May I also check the circulation of the opposite side for comparison?"

Ironhide nodded once in consent. However, as soon as Ratchet touched him, he could not help but jerk away.

Ratchet stepped back at that. "Is there an injury to your left arm as well?" he asked, probably having detected no anomalies on that side when he performed his scan. "I didn't see anything before."

"No," the weapons specialist responded. "It's fine. I don't know what I was thinking."

Frag it, he did not want the medic to know how jumpy he was.

But Ratchet was not one to let things go, especially when it came to the health and well-being of his patients. "You didn't do it last time so obviously it's not fine. Tell me, what's the problem?"

Ironhide sighed uncomfortably, turning away before he responded. "I did not recharge very well last night, that's all. Probably just a little edgy because of it."

"Is it something I need to be concerned about?" Ratchet asked. "Do you need a different painkiller?"

Ironhide shook his head. "No. It was the first time."

The medic studied him for a moment, as if trying to make sure he was using good judgment, but then he relented. "All right. But if anything changes, please let me know."

Ironhide nodded again, looking unusually worn down Ratchet thought, but perhaps the mech was just tired and a bit shaken. After all, it was the first time he had had any kind of serious run-in with the faction he used to fight for.

* * *

 _So that marks the end of chapter 3, and pretty much all the framework we need before we can get to the action! Any guesses as to what's going on? What's up with the early morning drive? It may seem ambiguous but rest assured that we will find out, and maybe even before our favorite medic does ;)_

 _Until then, happy reading!  
_


	4. Second Mission

_Two updates in two days? Probably not going to happen very often, but hopefully you enjoy. Happy reading!_

* * *

Ratchet had discharged Ironhide from the med bay later that orn. The mech seemed perfectly fine after he had gotten some rest, and Ratchet had not found anything else wrong with him.

Primus, Ironhide was a hard mech to understand. He was usually quiet and reserved, and even a bit distant, making it hard for Ratchet to know when there was something he should be concerned about.

But when an entire decaorn in the lab passed with no mention of Ironhide from any of the medics working in the med bay, Ratchet told himself that he needed to stop worrying about him. It was not like Ironhide was unable to take care of himself, and Ratchet really had no business keeping tabs on the mech all the time.

Maybe it was just because Ratchet felt somewhat responsible for him. After all, the mech had spared him in a firefight a long time ago and then Ratchet had later convinced him to join the Autobot cause, despite the black mech seeming disenchanted with the war altogether. Ironhide had planned to defect and go it alone as a neutral as far as Ratchet understood, but instead he had become an Autobot, and for some reason Ratchet often found himself wondering in the back of his mind if Ironhide had regretted that decision.

It was not that Ironhide seemed unhappy, it was just that Ratchet could not tell. He was so incredibly difficult to read, usually giving no clue at all as to what was going on in his processor.

Or maybe that was why Ratchet often found himself thinking about the black mech—because he was a puzzle that begged to be understood, and Ratchet was not often so intrigued by something.

But once again, Ratchet had to remind himself that he would simply see the mech when he saw him. It really was not so proper to spend so much time wondering about him, especially since the mech was one of Ratchet's patients. Ratchet was supposed to be able to distance himself, to stay focused on only the tasks at hand or of immediate concern.

Maybe the medic himself needed to step back and try to regain that balance he had had before he met the weapons specialist.

/* * */

It was cloudy. Cloudy and windy, and a little cooler than the Badlands usually were.

But Ironhide was not going to complain. The cool, refreshing air was a welcome relief from the usual scorching heat of this place.

And from his own thoughts. Finally, now that he was with a small, skilled team, and in his element, he was able to put all of his skills to use and he found that he was again able focus extremely well on exactly what he was doing.

It felt good, because when he had been assigned to the lower rank and had not been overly challenged, he found that he had become distracted and had missed things that someone with his experience should have never missed. It was a tough lesson, but he had learned from it.

As a reminder, Ironhide felt the scorched metal on the top of his shoulder. It was healing nicely, but he was lucky the shot had been from behind. Had it hit him from the front near the spark chamber, he may not have survived.

Suddenly, Ironhide's sensors picked up a faint spark signal behind a rocky outcropping to his left. Ironhide banked left in vehicle mode, his tires kicking up a flurry of dry sand, as he simultaneously contacted his commander to inform him that he was checking on an anomaly near his current coordinates.

" _Be careful, Ironhide,_ " Ironhide's commander, Windcharger, warned him. " _Do you need backup?_ "

" _Not at this time_ ," Ironhide transmitted back. " _I will report back in a few breems._ "

Ironhide cut the connection and transformed into robot mode, arming his cannons as he approached the edge of the outcropping. He scanned the area again just to make sure it was not an ambush, but his scanners still picked up only the one lone signal.

Ironhide rounded the corner and aimed his weapons at his target, which he had assumed to be a Decepticon, but to his surprise it was not.

It was an Autobot.

The mech was blue and white with the Autobot insignia across both shoulders, and he was merely leaning against the rocks as if he did not have anything better to do. Ironhide did not recognize him, though the mech almost had the faint appearance of Jazz. He was a Praxian, anyway, and a smaller one at that.

"Stand down," the weapons specialist said, lowering his own weapons and powering them down.

The mech also lowered his weapons. "Well, if it isn't Ironhide," he stated in an almost too-friendly way. Then he added, "I don't know if blue suits you."

Ironhide hesitated at that. It was true that some Autobots did not trust him—and understandably so—but none had acted like this. "Blue suits me just fine," he replied carefully.

But the mech just smirked in response, turning away and leaning against the rocks again in a distinctly Jazz-ian way. "So you think just because you changed the color of your optics, it makes you any different?"

Before Ironhide could reply he received a comm from Windcharger, the Autobot commander likely wondering why Ironhide had not yet checked in. " _Ironhide, report._ "

" _Hold,_ " the weapons specialist transmitted, keeping his attention focused on the other mech and taking a step toward him. "I'm not any different."

The Autobot snorted. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

Ironhide was getting annoyed with the biting remarks, but he kept his tone neutral. "What is your designation, soldier?"

"Ha," the mech chuckled, waving his hand flippantly. "Like I'd tell you."

Ironhide narrowed his optics, having had about enough of this. "You shouldn't be out here. Tell me your designation and move on or I am reporting you to my commanding officer."

"Yeah? We'll see about that..."

Then, without warning, the mech powered up his blaster and fired a shot directly at Ironhide's chest.

Ironhide tried to dodge it but he was standing way too close, and although the shot missed his spark chamber, he took a heavy hit not far to the side where one bank of his primary cooling fans were. He yelped as the blades ground into the damaged metal, collapsing to his knees from the pain until he managed to shut that part of the system off.

"I thought you would be tougher than that," the mech said, standing over him. Ironhide scrambled to his feet, trying to put some distance between him and the mech, but before he could even stand all the way up the mech leveled his blaster at him again.

And Ironhide did the only thing he could think to do—he leveled his own weapon and fired.


	5. Light

_So I kind of backed myself into a corner in that last chapter, and I spent this one getting myself out, but now we are back on track. Thanks everyone for reading & reviewing!_

* * *

Ironhide woke up panting, and more frightened than he had been in a very long time, though once again it only took him a few seconds to realize that he was in his quarters.

Primus, had that all been a dream?

The weapons specialist wiped his brow with a trembling hand, glancing down at the armor on his side just to make sure it was indeed not damaged.

The dark panels glinted flawlessly under the dim light. And, skimming through his memory files for the past orn, he was reminded that the mission with Windcharger's team had gone just fine. In fact, they had not even met any other souls in the area they had been patrolling.

Ironhide let out a sigh, though it did little to calm him. That would come with time, he knew.

He knew because this sort of thing had been happening more and more frequently. First it had just been once, then a few isolated incidents, and now it was multiple times per night. He had even considered avoiding recharge if at all possible, but in a lot of cases it was not.

And although Ratchet had said to come to him with any problems—and although Ironhide _wanted_ to do so regarding this—in his processor he was deeply conflicted about it. After all, this was in his own mind, and he should be strong enough to be in control of anything in his own mind.

Or at the very least, he had to be for as long as he could.

Ironhide turned over on his berth, trying to get comfortable as he pondered how he was going to spend the rest of the night. Should he try to get more recharge? Or should he just rest his optics?

But if the weapons specialist was completely honest with himself, what he really wanted at that moment was, well, Ratchet... To speak with him, see him, anything... The mech's mere presence had somehow always been reassuring to Ironhide. But he fought it since he had no real reason to contact him, and instead he checked his chronometer to see how long it might be until he could potentially see the mech.

To his surprise, his chronometer was not working.

Ironhide's spark leapt at that, though he felt distinctly guilty that it had. His chronometer was hardly a good reason to contact Ratchet directly, as the med bay was likely fully staffed and he should just go there, and Ratchet might not be working, but still, Ironhide found it strangely gratifying just to think that he could _possibly_ interact with the chartreuse medic sooner than morning. It was like a fix that he felt ashamed for needing, but he needed it nonetheless.

And although Ironhide thought he had resolved himself to simply go to the med bay as he should, in the end he could not fight it.

"Ratchet..." he sent tentatively through a private comm, though he regretted it almost immediately as he knew he really should not be bothering the medic at this time of night. But it was too late now, and now he had to follow through with it. "It's... Ironhide. Are you... working? In the med bay tonight?"

It sounded clumsy even to the weapons specialist, but if Ratchet noticed, he did not say anything about it.

" _No I am not,_ " came the impassive reply, " _but what do you need?_ "

Ironhide again felt ashamed for having bothered the medic, though at the same time it was so very soothing to hear the mech's voice. "I'm sorry, it's just... My chronometer, it seems to have stopped functioning. I would not have bothered you so late if I did not need it for tomorrow's mission. But I can find someone who is on duty to look at it tonight..."

There was a pause, but then the medic replied. " _It's fine. I can come_ _tonight_ _._ _You are in your quarters, correct?_ "

"That's correct," Ironhide transmitted back, managing to steady his voice a bit better this time.

" _All right. I just need to grab my kit and I'll be there shortly._ "

"Thank you, Ratchet." With that Ironhide cut the comm link, getting up off the berth to turn on a small light. He still felt a little shaken, though he hoped that a few breems to compose himself would help with that. After all, as much as he wanted to see Ratchet, he also did not want the medic picking up on how unsettled he was.

Or the fact that, despite having always gotten by just fine on his own, he now found himself relying on the medic more and more to cope with the stress of everything.

/* * */

When ratchet had retired to his quarters for the night, the last thing he had expected to be woken up by was a private comm from Ironhide. Had anyone else commed the already overtired medic in the middle of the night—save for another medic or the Prime himself—Ratchet probably would have told them to frag off.

But something seemed off about Ironhide's comm, particularly because the infuriatingly stubborn mech was not usually one to seek out Ratchet's help, even when faced with a serious—if not life-threatening—issue.

So when Ironhide had commed him simply to ask if he was working that night, and a bit shakily at that, Ratchet immediately took note of it.

" _Ratchet... It's... Ironhide. Are you... working? In the med bay tonight?_ "

Ratchet wearily hauled himself up to a sitting position, rubbing his face and trying to online the rest of his systems. "No I am not," he replied, "but what do you need?"

" _I'm sorry, it's just... My chronometer, it seems to have stopped functioning. I would not have bothered you so late if I did not need it for tomorrow's mission. But I can find someone who is on duty to look at it tonight..._ "

The response was also a bit unusual, as Ironhide was also not usually one to ramble. In fact, the black warrior often paused before responding to a question so that he could frame his reply. Or at the very least, that was what Ratchet had always imagined he was doing.

Either way, if Ironhide somehow felt the need to see Ratchet for something, the medic was not going to turn him down. "It's fine," Ratchet transmitted after he had come to his conclusion. "I can come tonight. You are in your quarters, correct?"

" _That's correct._ "

"All right," Ratchet replied. "I just need to grab my kit and I'll be there shortly."

" _Thank you, Ratchet._ "

Ironhide cut the comm then, and Ratchet got the feeling that the mech was distinctly embarrassed.

For what, Ratchet did not know. But he grabbed his kit and prepared to make the short journey to Ironhide's quarters.


	6. Truths

_Well, another chapter ;) Let me warn you that this is the part where it isn't going to be rated K, but let's be honest - T readers should be able to handle this. If you don't like, please don't read. This is 2017, and as I'm an adult author (in case you did not know that) you can expect to see adult themes in my stories. Nothing explicit, so no worries there._

 _Any questions, feel free to drop me a line. Otherwise I hope to see you along for the ride :)_

* * *

It seemed as though only a few breems had passed before Ironhide heard a soft knock on the door to his quarters. It was Ratchet for sure, as the chartreuse Autobot was always one to be considerate when it was the late joors of the night.

"It's unlocked," Ironhide called out to him, though he did not bother turning toward the doorway. It was not that he no longer appreciated that the medic had taken the time to come out in the middle of the night or anything like that, it was just that the weapons specialist had felt even more ashamed of himself as more time had passed. After all, he really should not have done this in the first place—What was Ratchet going to think?

It also troubled the weapons specialist that he had not so long ago been so self-confident that he would have never felt like this. But now, and for some reason that Ironhide was unsure of but that he yearned to define clearly, it was no longer true.

But he would have to think on it a different time, as Ratchet then opened the door and stepped quietly into Ironhide's quarters.

Ironhide did glance up then, seeing the familiar form of the Autobot medic, noting the small rectangular med kit he carried with him for calls like this.

"Good evening," Ratchet said, though rather than look at Ironhide directly as he greeted him he instead quickly glanced around the room. He then made optic contact with Ironhide, which was when Ironhide looked away.

"Hello, Ratchet," the weapons specialist responded, internally pleased with his ability to keep his voice steady and even despite his nervousness about how Ratchet was going to respond to this entire situation. "I appreciate you coming."

"Not a problem," Ratchet replied calmly, which was somewhat reassuring to the weapons specialist. Then the mech got straight to the point. "So your chronometer is not working?"

Ironhide shook his head. "No, it isn't."

"Not working how?" the medic asked. "Is the display wrong? Is there no display at all? Or what exactly is going on with it?"

Ironhide paused. "It just... stopped working. It still says it's an orn ago, and even the time hasn't changed since I called you."

"So it stopped counting?"

"Yes."

Now Ratchet paused for a moment. "All right. I would guess that something is worn, but let's take a look. Can you show me?"

Ironhide nodded, shifting aside the panels that covered the small device. Different mechs had them in different locations, and Ironhide's just happened to be below the shoulder but on his upper chest. On the opposite side of where... well, where the Decepticon had nailed him.

Ratchet pulled a small light out of subspace and flipped it on, shining it over Ironhide's chronometer and leaning closer for a better look. Ironhide turned his head to the side to stay out of the way.

"No obvious damage..." the medic noted distantly, as if he was talking to himself more than to Ironhide. "Nothing appears overly worn... Connections look fine... Hmm."

Ironhide glanced at Ratchet as the medic sat up, having clearly found no definitive cause.

"Let's just try a reset," Ratchet suggested, "and see what that does. Maybe it was just a glitch."

Ironhide nodded his consent. "Okay. Will you sync it, or shall I?"

"I can sync it to my chronometer," Ratchet replied. "Assuming the reset works, then that should be all you need."

That sounded fine to the weapons specialist. "Very well."

"All right. Give me a moment..."

Ironhide waited patiently as Ratchet did whatever it was he needed to reset the hardware on Ironhide's chronometer, though he also thought he felt the hint of a subtle scan from the medic.

Primus, was he looking for something?

"All right. All done," Ratchet stated, stepping back. "It seems to be working now."

Ironhide himself checked it as well, and Ratchet was right. It now read the time as 0230 and counting.

"Thank you, Ratchet," Ironhide said carefully, although more out of nervousness than anything else. He had not wanted Ratchet to find anything else, and he hoped that either the mech had not found anything or that he had been wrong about the scan to begin with.

But only a few moments passed before Ironhide's suspicions were confirmed.

"Ironhide, is there anything else you want to tell me?" the medic asked. "Anything that's been... bothering you? Maybe keeping you awake?"

Ironhide glanced at him but he had to look away. He did not need help—he could handle this himself, though he should have done a better making sure no one ever knew about it. He had always hidden things like this before.

But Ratchet clearly already knew something was up, so Ironhide decided to tell the medic just enough to hopefully get him to drop it.

"It's just... the nightmares," he answered quietly. "It's not serious, just makes it hard to recharge."

Ratchet cast him a hard glance, crossing his arms over his chassis. "Ironhide, you said you would _tell me_ if anything changed."

"Ratchet, please _drop it_ ," the weapons specialist barked harshly, before he realized he had done it.

"Okay, okay," the medic relented, raising his hands placatingly at Ironhide's sudden and unexpected change in demeanor. "If you don't want to talk about it, I won't make you."

Ironhide said nothing in response though he continued to look at the Autobot medic. Then he turned away, huffing lightly.

"Listen, Ironhide," Ratchet said softly, this time trying a different approach, "if you don't want to talk about it that's fine, but at the very least, can I give you something to help you recharge?"

Ratchet did not bother mentioning that Ironhide even looked a bit weary, as the medic was not sure how on-edge the mech was at that moment or what might only serve to further upset him. Primus knew that the weapons specialist had apparently been putting up a facade this entire time.

"Ratchet, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that," Ironhide apologized, still facing away the medic.

Ratchet observed the black mech for the moment, seeing the slight hint of colors reflecting on his dark armor from the room around them, noting that the mech looked ragged even in his posture.

"It's all right," Ratchet said to him. "Forget it even happened."

Ironhide turned toward him then, though he did not say anything else.

Ratchet reached down into his med kit and pulled out a small bottle of blue pills. "Here. Take two of these a night for the next few orns after you retire to your quarters. It's just a mild sedative that will help you recharge."

Ratchet held the bottle out to Ironhide, but the weapons specialist did not take it.

The medic waited a moment longer, then he set the bottle down of the nightstand. "I'll leave them here for you. If there's anything else you need, please don't hesitate to comm me," the medic said softly. "There's no shame in asking for help."

Ironhide did not seem to visibly relax, his frame still rigid, though at the very least he did seem to be thinking on Ratchet's words.

It might take the mech a while, Ratchet thought, to come around—after all, he had learned under Megatron that asking for help was a weakness.

Ratchet just hoped that Ironhide would let that go sooner rather than later. After all, it had to have taken a toll on the mech over the vorns.

/* * */

Ratchet had returned to his quarters as soon as he was done with Ironhide, and although he certainly had some concerns regarding the suddenly-cagey mech, he forced himself to set them aside for the night and he had planned to simply go back to recharge since he had no other pressing obligations, but instead the medic found himself lying awake thinking about a particular memory file from almost a vorn ago that had no relevance to anything recent but that his thoughts were inexplicably drawn to.

It was when he had found himself on the outskirts of Kaon, in a barren and rocky swatch of predominately untraversed desert that Ironhide—still _technically_ a Decepticon at the time—had led him to that night, following the weapons specialist's daring decision to break Ratchet out of a Decepticon brig. And all of that likely because the black mech felt that he owed something to the Autobot, as Ratchet had in fact treated Ironhide for severe injuries when the weapons specialist himself had been captured by the Autobots. Or at least, Ratchet speculated that that was why Ironhide had done it.

But whatever the reason, the end result was that Ratchet found himself somewhere that he likely would have never been, with a mech that he certainly would not have been with.

Though he had been learning, from Ironhide's time as an Autobot prisoner as well as Ratchet's time as a Decepticon prisoner, that Ironhide had morals and ethics unlike any other Decepticon and that the intimidating mech was surprisingly not a threat to anyone who could not put up a fair fight—like a medic.

It was an enigma that Ratchet did not at all understand, much like how he did not understand why Ironhide had been standing outside in the rain that night—and this was even before Ratchet had learned that the weapons specialist loathed being wet—just before a storm blew in and when they had a dry cavern to take shelter in.

"Are you trying to get struck by lightning?" Ratchet had asked him, he himself having left the relative safety of the shelter when he noticed that Ironhide was standing outside.

The weapons specialist had turned toward him then, his optics a frightening shade of red even if Ratchet did no longer fear him by that point.

"No," was the simple answer Ironhide had for him.

"Then why are you out here?" Ratchet asked.

The weapons specialist turned away slightly. "The ship could be arriving soon," he said.

Ratchet tilted his helm at that. "What ship?"

"They're sending a ship," Ironhide explained. "The Autobots."

"Ah." Ratchet took a few steps to stand beside Ironhide, also glancing in the same direction that the veteran warrior was. "And they chose to send it here?"

"Not exactly. I gave them these coordinates, and they agreed to come."

That was a bit surprising to Ratchet. "Even though it could be a trap?"

"Apparently," Ironhide speculated, "they're willing to take the risk for you."

Ratchet shifted his weight then, unsure if he should bring up what he wanted to bring up but finally deciding that he might not get a better chance to do so. "As are you."

The black Decepticon glanced at him then. "What?"

Ratchet did not meet his gaze right away, choosing instead to look out over the landscape for a while more. "You've taken a lot of risks for me. Why would you sacrifice so much?"

There was a pause. "What do you mean?"

"You're a field commander in one of the largest and most powerful armies on Cyberton," Ratchet reminded him, "and yet you're willing to throw it all away."

"It's just a title," Ironhide responded. "I'm not throwing anything away."

"You won't be able to return to the Decepticons."

"No, I won't," Ironhide conceded.

"Then what are you going to do now?" Ratchet asked.

But Ironhide did not have an answer to that, and Ratchet felt that the mech really did not know what he was going to do from there. "Have you thought about taking your life in a different direction?"

Ironhide glanced at him. "You mean becoming an Autobot?"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

But after only a few seconds, Ironhide responded with a simple, "I couldn't."

"Why not? It's a choice. You can be anything."

"I'm not like your kind," Ironhide replied.

Ratchet smiled at that, lightly touching Ironhide's shoulder to reassure him. "You're more like us than you think."

But Ironhide turned away at that, and Ratchet got the distinct feeling that the weapons specialist did not quite agree with that.

"Ironhide," he tried again, more softly this time, "you don't give yourself enough credit. I've seen you do things that certainly only a mech with a pure spark would ever do."

"You're wrong," Ironhide said suddenly, and although on the surface it sounded like anger, Ratchet thought he caught a hint of pain underlying the mech's words.

"Okay, I'm sorry," Ratchet relented. "I was not trying to upset you."

Ironhide said nothing in response, though he did turn to look at the medic. Again Ratchet thought about how wrong his—and likely everyone else's—preconceived opinion of the intimidating and seemingly independent mech was. Clearly there was more to him than met the optic, and even if Ironhide himself pretended—or maybe even believed—that he never needed anyone else for support or assurance, at this particular moment it was obvious that he did.

Ratchet did what he felt in his spark he should do—he walked up to the weapons specialist, standing in front of him and putting a hand on each shoulder. Ironhide looked away, but Ratchet could see him venting hard.

Ratchet was a bit surprised that Ironhide did not shy away again, but what the medic really did not expect was when Ironhide actually _reached out to him_ in response. The black mech stepped closer, still looking away, and Ratchet suddenly felt that he...

 _Wanted him_.

Ratchet knew in his processor that it was unwise, that if he went through with this he would never be able to take it back, and there could be risks and consequences even beyond what he was able to foresee, but in the end...

In the end he did not fight it. The last thing he remembered, his own spark pulsing at the tendrils of a connection between himself and Ironhide, was the soft thrum of rain against his armor...

Suddenly Ratchet woke up, realizing with a start that he must have fallen into recharge while accessing the memory file, because that orn had _not_ gone like that. He had never... been with Ironhide.

And why his processor had twisted the memory file into a dream like that, Ratchet had no idea.

The medic ran a hand over his face. Perhaps it was just a strange result of his recharge cycle being interrupted. Or at the very least, that was the best explanation Ratchet had for it. Because the alternative...

Well, if Ratchet was completely honest with himself, he did find the weapons specialist intriguing, yes, but that was it—there was _nothing_ else.

Ratchet shook it off, rolling onto his side on the berth and covering himself with a thermal blanket. Temperature, too, could cause strange dreams...


	7. Just a Question

_I was hoping to make this chapter a longer chapter, but with a lot going on in real life I was unable to expand upon it too much and the next few scenes I believe would be better suited to being in the next chapter. Also, the preview to 'Unbreakable' that I posted at the end of 'The Catalyst' might no longer fit in the plotline the way I have it now, so I guess that is going to be something of a 'deleted scene'. Anyway, as always I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Once again, several decaorns passed and Ironhide seemed fine. It was hard to tell for sure because Ratchet had not really known the mech all that long, and so he could not really say what was 'normal' for him, but the weapons specialist seemed to be doing well on his missions—very well, in fact, which was not really surprising considering how much experience he already had—and he had even talked of doing some light combat training classes for the new recruits, although nothing was for sure yet.

Ratchet himself had also been doing well enough. That strange dream seemed to have been a one-time occurrence as it had not happened since, and so he did not bother speaking of it to anyone. There was not any point—after all, nothing had come of it.

"Ratchet, I was asking you a question," the voice of Jazz suddenly broke through the thick haze that was the chartreuse medic's thoughts.

Ratchet quickly glanced up at the silver minibot sitting across the table from him in their usual corner of the lounge. Jazz had already finished half of his energon cube, whereas Ratchet had barely touched his.

"I'm sorry?" the medic replied, distinctly embarrassed that he had not noticed his comrade speaking to him.

But Jazz merely smiled. "I was just asking why you've hardly sipped from your energon yet. Does it taste weird? 'Cause mine's totally fine."

"No, it's fine," the medic responded, picking up the cube and holding it in his hand for a moment before setting it down again. "I'm just not in a hurry, I guess."

But Jazz, the equivalent of a social mind-reader, did not seem convinced. "You seem kind of distracted. Are you okay?"

Ratchet made it a point to look the silver mech in the optic. "I'm fine, Jazz, but thank you for asking. There's just a lot going on right now."

Jazz nodded, looking down at his own cube of energon. "I can imagine that. How does the lab work go? Are you assigned there right now?"

"Yes, I am," Ratchet replied, taking a sip from his energon cube before he elaborated further, "but it isn't going well. The team I'm on is looking for any kind of counterpoison or immunizing agent for tox-en, but so far, we still don't fully understand how it works and we haven't found anything that seems to counteract it."

"Hmm. Sounds like a tough one," Jazz responded. "But you're smart, and you're on a smart team. I'm sure you'll crack it."

Ratchet chuckled at that, though it was more to cope with the seriousness of the fact that they legitimately might _not_ ever find an antidote for the toxic substance, rather than because he actually found the situation humorous. "I hope you're right, Jazz."

/* * */

Optimus stared at the myriad of wall-mounted screens in front him as he sat silently in his office, the red and blue mech turning over the information in his processor yet again even though he knew he was probably not going to come to any kind of conclusion about it.

That was because it did not make any sense.

He read over the information again, the dates and times and statistics spilling across the monitors. No one else in the command center had been able to make any sense of it, either.

Basically, the Decepticons had—for some _unknown_ reason, because they always had a reason—been targeting seemingly unimportant outposts in what appeared to be totally random occurrences. Like the one that resulted in the incident with Ironhide.

It was unlikely that the Decepticons had been trying to locate the weapons specialist through those attacks, as a mech of Ironhide's caliber would not normally be assigned to such a mission. And besides that, Optimus himself had been the one to assign Ironhide's missions, specifically so there would be no way that the Decepticons—or even a Decepticon spy in the Autobots ranks, if one existed—could know in advance where the black veteran would be.

But that was really more of a precaution. In his spark, Optimus sensed that the Decepticons were not actively looking for Ironhide. If they were, there would be better ways to do it. And Megatron would have certainly made some kind of demand by now.

No, they had turned him loose for some reason. Why, Optimus did not know, but he did know Megatron well enough to know that it almost certainly had to do with respect. Ironhide must have done something, something that had earned him enough respect from Megatron that the silver warlord had decided not to pursue the mech when he defected.

Unfortunately even Ironhide himself did not remember the details of his defection, as he had... well, not been in his right mind when those events had taken place.

The only ones that knew were Megatron himself, and any other mechs that might have been present at the time.

But that was really not the issue at hand. _Why_ the Decepticons were staging these random attacks, and what kind of tactical advantage they hoped to potentially gain from it, was what the Autobots _really_ needed to know.

Suddenly Optimus realized something, and he could not believe he had not thought of it sooner.

He could ask Ironhide about the attacks. After all, who among the Autobot ranks could know the Decepticons and their tactics better than a former Decepticon commander himself?

Ultra Magnus would not like it, and likely neither would any of the other Autobot commanders as Ironhide was still fairly new to the ranks and he was most definitely not fully trusted by everyone, but it would be foolish not to use an important resource that the Autobots had not historically had at their disposal.

Optimus sat up at his desk, shutting off the monitors and toying with the datapad in his hand while he thought about whether or not he wanted to go through with it.

 _It_ _could_ _not_ _hurt_ , the flame-patterned Autobot leader thought. He would merely be asking an opinion, not sharing any tactical data or sensitive information. He opened a private comm to the black mech.

"Ironhide, report to the command center at your earliest convenience. Optimus out."

Now, he would just wait to talk to the mech.

/* * */

Ironhide fired at the target one last time, convinced that this shot would be the final shot he needed to finish calibrating his targeting system. It had been a bit off for some reason, and although it was not by much, he had noticed it. But this should be enough to fix it.

Ironhide watched as the round hit the face of the target. It was still not quite perfectly centered, but it was close. Close enough that it would down a Decepticon, and that was really all he needed.

He expected that the calibration would not take long, and indeed it had not—not even a half joor, and he could use the practice anyway.

What he did not expect was to suddenly receive a personal comm from Optimus Prime himself.

" _Ironhide, report to the command center at your earliest convenience. Optimus out._ "

The weapons specialist paused at the brief communication, spinning his cannons to cool them down as he turned his back toward the target.

Prime wanted to see him? Ironhide could not think of why. There had been nothing notable on any of his last missions, and he had only recently been promoted from Class 1 to Class 3, so moving up in the ranks again was not likely. The only other thing he could think of was that he had done something wrong, but to the best of his knowledge... he had not.

They did not suspect him of anything, did they?

Ironhide pushed that thought aside, knowing that anything they might be suspicious of would be long done. If they feared he was doing anything untoward they certainly would have spoken to him earlier.

Or at least he hoped. How far back could they—or _would_ they—check? Especially now?

Primus, he was just worrying himself. He should just go talk to Prime, get it over with before his processor over-analyzed the situation any more that it already had. Maybe the Prime just had a question for him.

Ironhide turned toward the door, letting out a sigh and then making his way to the hallway.


	8. Unsettled

_Well, one more chapter, and one more cliffy... You should know, I love those ;)_

 _On a side note, I have always been meaning to make these chapters longer (like the chapters in 'Voltage') but alas, there are always time constraints. I'm in the process of purchasing my first house, and 2 of my 4 coworker peers either are leaving or have left, and with a minimum of 4 weeks to get their replacements trained-in, there have been some long days (and nights) for me and my colleague. But fall and winter are our slower seasons, so I'm looking forward to that._

 _Anyway, let's get back to Ironhide to Optimus :)_

* * *

It was not long before Optimus Prime heard the soft chime of an entry request to his office. He was certain it was Ironhide, because although he had instructed the weapons specialist to come at his earliest _convenience_ , Ironhide was always prompt. It seemed that the mech did not like to leave anything unfinished for any length of time.

Which Optimus himself found commendable, and in fact it was one of the characteristics he looked for when choosing a mech or femme to be one of his next commanders.

But that kind of consideration would be some time off for Ironhide. For now, Optimus just wished to speak with him—hopefully to gain some new insights about the Deceptions, and also because he had not really had many opportunities to interact with Ironhide in private. He did not really know much about the mech on a personal level, and so he hoped to also learn at least a little bit more about him. Maybe a bit about his character, his motivations, his outlook... or maybe even just how reserved the mech was.

Optimus pressed the small button to grant access to his office, then he stood up as the door opened and the dark form of Ironhide stepped cautiously into the room. The weapons specialist stopped just past the doorway, just far enough that the door could close behind him, and then he waited for further instruction. Probably as he had been trained to do.

"Ironhide," Optimus greeted him, nodding his helm.

"Prime," the weapons specialist responded. He looked as if he was not sure what to expect. "You wished to see me?"

"Yes." Optimus studied the mech for a brief second—not enough to be untoward or to arouse any suspicion, but enough for Optimus to make some observations of the relatively quiet mech.

Ironhide was standing straight and had placed his hands behind his back, something he had also probably been trained to do. He was looking Optimus in the optic, and although he did not appear nervous per se, he did not exactly seem at ease either. His posture was rigid, and his face was devoid of any kind of emotion that might hint at what he was thinking.

It was somewhat different from the first time Optimus had met him. That had been one-on-one too, when Optimus and Ironhide had basically stumbled into each other's paths by accident. Although Ironhide not exactly been... well, _friendly_ toward him, the mech had seemed to be a bit more at ease with the situation. Perhaps because he had been in his own territory, or perhaps it was because he and Optimus had been on more equal footing then—they were just two enemies who had happened to find themselves in front of each other, Optimus's rank notwithstanding.

Ironhide had not seemed to fear him at all then. Not that he did now—it was just that most Autobots would have been intimidated had they found themselves facing the Decepticon leader alone. But perhaps that was just Decepticon boldness, or the fact that Megatron really was a better fighter than Optimus.

Optimus relaxed his posture, hoping the weapons specialist would relax at well. "Please, come in," he invited him warmly. "It is not necessary to remain so distant."

Ironhide did step forward, though not quite as far as Optimus's desk. He then stood expectantly, again waiting for the Autobot leader to make the next move.

Optimus smiled slightly, making his way around his desk to stand closer to the weapons specialist. "Ironhide, I was hoping I could ask for your... opinion regarding something."

Ironhide cocked his head slightly. That must not have been what he was expecting to hear. "My opinion?"

Optimus nodded. "Yes. You know the Decepticons better than anyone else on this base, so I will simply ask you outright. What, if anything, do you make of this?"

Optimus handed Ironhide a datapad, which the black mech took somewhat hesitantly. But once he began reading he seemed at ease, which was a relief in and of itself to Optimus.

"What am I looking at?" Ironhide asked, though he did not bother to look up as he scrolled through the lines of data on the screen.

"Those are the dates and locations of a series of Decepticon attacks that seem to be related in no way other than that they appear to have no kind of tactical advantage or obvious purpose," Optimus explained. "Other than that peculiarity, we have found no other common factors."

Ironhide nodded, reading through the information again quickly. And while the weapons specialist had always proven to be—even to Optimus—a challenging mech to read, this time the black warrior's lack of any noticeable change in facial expression was telling.

He knew what he was looking at.

Optimus doubted that Ironhide even realized it, but when the veteran warrior was faced with something that he was not familiar with, he would usually show some subtle sign of it. Whether it be a cocked head or a bemused facial expression, there was almost always something.

But this time Ironhide merely continued reading with the same neutral expression he had had from the start,o he must understand what he was looking at.

"I don't know," the black mech spoke up then, almost as if contradicting everything Optimus thought he knew about the mech. "I'm sorry. If I may be excused, sir?"

The Autobot leader was surprised, if not a bit disconcerted, by the abrupt change in the conversation. However, he did not voice any of his concerns as Ironhide handed him back the datapad and waited for an answer, the features of his scarred visage somehow making him look particularly weary at that instant.

Optimus drew in a vent of air. "You may go," he said, though he made a mental note to go over this conversation again in his processor. Something just seemed... off about it.

Or perhaps there was something going on with Ironhide? Optimus had not heard anything, or at least nothing recently, but he would make it a point to ask next time he could pull a medic aside.

Particularly Ratchet.

But for now, Optimus merely returned to his desk and watched the door shut behind the black mech.

/* * */

Ironhide stepped out of Optimus Prime's office and headed down the hallway not a moment too soon, or at least it felt that way to the weapons specialist.

He had stressed out, he had panicked, and he did not even know why.

And worst of all, he had lied. He had lied simply so he could get himself out of that situation sooner.

Why the _frag_ had he done that?

Ironhide stopped and put his hands on his head. It was just one more thing, one more thing on top of all the other things that were overwhelming him right then.

He realized he was venting hard. Forcibly trying to calm himself, he counted backwards from one-hundred in his head.

It would help to get outside, to get away from everything for a moment. He knew if he did not pull himself together, he was going to make himself sick. He could already feel it in his spark.

Sometimes... sometimes it was better, and he could go about his tasks without having to think about it, but lately it seemed to be catching up with him.

Primus, why had he not been able to shake this?

Ironhide thought again of contacting the medic, Ratchet, but...

He could not bring himself to do it. Why?

For the same reason he had not told him about the nightmares. Because he did not want the medic looking.

Ironhide leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly dizzy. Best would probably be to return to his quarters and relax until he felt better.

But as if dooming him to suffer a different fate, that faint twinge in Ironhide's spark became a stabbing pain that brought the mech to his knees. And while he managed not to cry out, he could not choke back a distressed whine as he clutched his chest and tried to stay focused on the rapidly deteriorating world in front of him.

The last thing the weapons specialist remembered before he completely blacked out was reciting a mantra to himself, though he was not sure if he said it aloud or if he only heard the words in his own mind.

 _Don't panic... Stop panicking..._


	9. Respite

_Another short chapter, but again I'd rather not keep you waiting ;) We'll get back to Ratchet in the next chapter, along with another appearance from Jazz. And *maybe* a bit of insight from Ratchet..._

* * *

He heard something beeping. Not obtrusively, or at least it had not been at first, but all of a sudden it seemed to be cutting into his very awareness like an energon sword through metal.

How had he not noticed it sooner? It was _constant_.

Forcing himself to focus on other things, Ironhide drew in a ragged vent of air and opened his optics. Everything was blurry, but blinking a few times he was able to get things more or less in-focus.

What greeted him were sterile white walls, opaque curtains, and the device that was the source of the beeping—a wall-mounted monitor displaying a readout of his vitals.

Med bay, of course...

Ironhide leaned back against the berth. _Of course_...

And although he knew for a fact that nothing had really changed, he did feel better somehow. Maybe it was just knowing that most of his obligations would be on pause for the time being.

Most...

Ironhide attempted to sit up, his joints creaking loudly in protest. Primus, he felt like he had not moved in ages...

Whether it was his attempt to sit up or a notification from the monitor, Ironhide suddenly caught sight of a medic walking toward him. He had seen the bulky blue and white medic before, a seemingly standoffish mech known as Driver, though he had never actually spoken with him. The mech had a hand up to his audial fin, as if he was sending a comm.

"Status update on Ironhide. He's awake," Ironhide heard the mech say. Then there was a pause, then he continued. "That should be fine. I will let you know."

The mech dropped his hand back down to his side as he got closer to the berth, casting a quick glance at the monitor before turning to face his patient.

"Ironhide," he greeted him. "Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"

"How long was I out?" Ironhide responded with instead, shuttering his optics for a moment at the too-bright overhead lights.

"Overnight. Really not that bad, considering. Does anything hurt?"

Probably should answer that one, Ironhide thought. "My chest, faintly. But it's not bad."

It almost felt kind of numb, if Ironhide was completely honest, but that was probably a side-effect of some analgesic the medic had used.

Driver nodded at the response. "Okay. Do you have any idea what happened?"

Ironhide shook his head. "Not really, no. My chest hurt something fierce, I can say that much."

"That's because you suffered from an acute spark attack that led to a total systems failure," Driver explained. "You flatlined for about four breems. As far as what actually caused it, diagnostics are still pending."

That was a bit of a shock to Ironhide, though he was careful not to show it. "Pending what?"

"Evaluation by a specialist. We've ruled out any kind of physiologic cause, so that just leaves a core programming error."

Core programming... Ironhide winced at that, though the medic did not catch it as he had glanced at the monitor again.

"But on a different note," Driver continued then, his mood just a bit lighter now, "if you feel up to it, there is a visitor who would like to see you."

Ironhide thought about that for a second, coming to the conclusion that although in general he was not usually one to enjoy the company of a visitor when he was in the med bay, he at the very least felt well enough to manage it. "That's fine. Do you know when?"

Driver smiled slightly. "Just a few breems. I'll let him know you're ready."

With that the medic turned and left, closing the curtain behind him. Must be the emergency department, Ironhide observed, otherwise the setup would not have been so temporary. He idly wondered if they were planning to move him to the general med bay for observation, or if they were going to discharge him right from here.

Probably not likely, considering the severity of what had happened to him. And they still had diagnostics to do.

Primus, how much longer could he hide it?

Ironhide shook his head, again trying to get his mind off things that he could do nothing about. Not right now, anyway.

But only a short amount of time passed before the weapons specialist did not have to worry about finding some way to occupy his thoughts, as he then heard the gentle voice of the mech that must be his visitor.

"Hello, Ironhide."

Ironhide tried to turn slightly on the berth, though with all the wires and sensors hooked up to his frame it was no easy task. "Prime," he greeted the Autobot leader, giving up on trying to get in any position other than flat on his back. "I apologize that this isn't the most dignified position to be speaking to anyone in."

Optimus waved a hand dismissively. "You need not be concerned about that. I merely wished to see how you were doing, and offer my thoughts and prayers for an uneventful recovery."

Optimus had not been the one who had found Ironhide after the mech had collapsed, however he remembered vividly hearing the call for a medical emergency and watching the medics try to revive Ironhide after his erratic spark rhythm had become a flatline. It had taken three shocks to get the mech's systems started again, and every time his black frame had seized at the jolt of electricity but nothing else had happened, all Optimus could think about was how unreal it was. That this mech could expire right in front of him.

But luckily, that had not happened.

Ironhide drew in a vent of air. "I appreciate that. Seems like I'm doing fairly well, according to the medic here."

"I am glad to hear that." Optimus stepped over to a nearby chair and sat down, then he continued speaking. "It happened shortly after you left my office. I should have noticed that something was wrong."

"It wasn't your fault." Ironhide glanced up at the ceiling and let out a sigh, his voice barely audible when he repeated it a second time with a soft murmur. "Not your fault."

Optimus said nothing to that, merely watching the black mech and wondering what was going on inside his processor. As usual, Ironhide was not one to readily give away his emotions. Optimus could guess what he was feeling—with confusion, worry, and doubt on the top of his list—but even the Matrix of Leadership was not providing any clues or validation.

"Optimus," Ironhide said suddenly, as if he felt the need to say it, "the Decepticons' attack pattern, the one you were asking me about, I know what it is."

Optimus blinked at the unexpected change in subject, but he did not have a chance to speak before the weapons specialist continued.

"It's a survey of sorts. They're using data from those attacks to estimate the size of the Autobot forces. You don't ever see them, but there will be a commander there on every attack."

Ironhide began coughing then, harshly enough that the monitor began beeping a warning that the mech was not ventilating properly.

But after a few moments he managed to calm himself, even if he was still venting slightly harder than normal.

"Ironhide," Optimus spoke up, now that he had a chance, "we need not discuss this right now. You should be worrying about yourself."

"I second that," the voice of Driver interjected, the medic clearly having been alerted by the monitor. "I think you've worked yourself up a bit too much in such a short time."

"N-no," Ironhide ground out, trying to suppress another cough. "It should be fair."

"It'll have to wait a bit," Driver said gently, nodding at Optimus that it was probably a good idea to leave for a while. "For right now we need to get your vitals back down."

Ironhide seemed to grudgingly relent, lying back against the berth and trying to vent in a more normal pattern. Optimus saw Driver preparing a syringe of mild sedative as he turned to leave and he had no doubt that that would help the weapons specialist calm down greatly, but there was one question Optimus could not help but ask himself.

 _What should be fair?_


	10. Meeting, Part 1

_Well, this one is probably going to be one of the shortest chapters I think I've ever posted. One of my first-ever favorite fanfics_ _that I found_ _had very short chapters like this, basically one for every scene, and although I'm not looking at going to that for this story, it does suit my purpose for the time being. I'm planning one more short chapter like this (basically, this and that chapter_ _—_ _which will be coming next—were originally_ _supposed to be part of Chapter 9) and then my goal is to get back to longer chapters, maybe even as long as the ones in 'Voltage' (those I tried to keep at a minimum of 2k words per chapter, whereas this story and 'The Catalyst' average more like 1200 to 1500 words per chapter._

 _So, authors and readers—any opinion on word count? Do you like longer chapters, or does it not matter as long as the scenes are developed enough?_

 _Whatever your preference, happy reading!_

* * *

Another evening in the lounge, sipping on another cube of regular energon while also staring at a cube of high-grade that he was not about to touch.

It was not really how Ratchet preferred to spend his evenings, however Jazz had a bad habit of dragging him along on outings like this. Telling him he needed to be 'social' or some scrap like that.

Mundane was what it was. But Ratchet valued Jazz's friendship, and for all he knew the silver minibot was the one who needed company. So Ratchet went along with it.

However, that did not mean he was going to go out of his way to make small talk.

"So how was it in the lab today?" Jazz asked, probably the fifth question so far that night. "Did you find an antidote for that tox-en stuff you were talking about?"

No, not even close. In fact, Ratchet felt as if he had wasted his entire decaorn on that project without even getting so much as the slightest bit closer to having a solution. "Can we not talk about that right now, please?"

Jazz lifted his hands placatingly. "Okay. So what do you want to talk about, then?"

"I don't care," Ratchet retorted. "Anything else."

"I've got something you'll probably want to talk about," Jazz replied, never being one to take the medic's gruff attitude seriously. "How about Ironhide?"

Ratchet let out a long, irritated sigh, not bothering to look Jazz in the optic. "Why does _everyone_ think I want to talk about him?"

"You said 'anything else'," Jazz teased the larger mech. "Anyway, he was admitted to the med bay late last night."

Ratchet glanced up then, though not for long before his optics dropped back down to his energon cube. "So what happened? Did he get into it with a 'Con again?"

"No, actually," Jazz countered, his tone distinctly serious now. "He had a spark attack. Even flatlined before they managed to bring him back."

Ratchet's gaze snapped up at that, a mixture of confusion and disbelief written across his faceplates. "A spark attack? Caused by what?"

Ironhide had never shown any signs of that. Not in any of Ratchet's exams, anyway.

But Jazz merely shook his head. "They don't know. He was found unresponsive in a hallway. I guess he was awake this morning."

Ratchet said nothing for a long moment, glancing away and finally responding but with nothing more than a faint 'hmm'.

Jazz was quiet for a long moment too, deciding that maybe he should change the subject. After all, he had not intended to upset Ratchet shortly before the mech retired for the night. "Hey, Ratch," he began, "are you going to try your high grade? Works really well to help me relax."

Ratchet glanced at him, casting him a stern look that seemed to indicate that either he was tired of all the questions or he was sick of hearing about high-grade.

"If I try it," the medic responded, "will you stop bothering me about it?"

Jazz was actually surprised by that, as the medic had never acted like he was going to along with the idea. Something about it being for... what was the word Ratchet had used?

Oh, yeah. 'Idiots'.

Jazz chuckled. "Ha. You have my word, Ratch."

"Well, I hope you keep it," Ratchet shot back playfully, "otherwise I'm never listening to you again."

The silver minibot smiled at that, taking a sip from his cube of high-grade.

Ratchet grabbed his, hoping to get this over with, though he paused to look at the pale blue liquid which he had for so long done well to avoid.

He better not get a headache from this...


	11. Meeting, Part 2

_Hello again dear readers :) Let me start by saying I must credit an idea in this chapter to Antubis0, who kindly let me borrow a concept for this story. I won't spoil exactly what it is, but if you are familiar with or you were to peruse her DeviantArt gallery after reading this chapter, you may be able to find it ;) Happy reading!_

 _And_ _KayleeChiara:_ _that totally makes sense, and good analogy. So, after this one final short(ish) chapter, we'll be back to the regular-length chapters. I'll even endeavor to make them a bit longer than they've been up to this point so there are less 'commercial breaks'. Thanks for reading & reviewing!_

* * *

Standing atop the plateau, Ratchet had a pretty good view of the battle going on beneath him. He could see a handful of Autobot warriors involved in various skirmishes with a few Decepticons—the Autobots were winning, by the way—and Optimus Prime was currently speeding along the desert floor in a plume of dust to draw several other Decepticons in the opposite direction. What exactly the Decepticons were doing out here, Ratchet had no idea.

But did they ever know what the Decepticons were doing? After all, Megatron's egotistical ideals and heedless thirst for power often precluded any kind of logical battle tactics. Or at least, it seemed so.

Or maybe Ratchet merely preferred to think that, rather than entertaining the idea that Megatron could in fact be an extremely skilled strategist whose every decision was carefully calculated to bring his goals to fruition as quickly as possible.

No, Ratchet did not want to think that. Megatron was a gladiator who rose to power by happenstance.

But enough of that. Ratchet knew he needed to be paying attention to what was going on around him.

He glanced down the escarpment that separated him from the battle below, his optics catching a glint of something reflective far off to his left. Turning to look at it, the Autobot medic was surprised to see a cohort of four or five Decepticons that he had not been previously aware of, along with a single other mech that they seemed to be targeting. Was it a neutral or an Autobot? Narrowing his gaze, Ratchet thought he was able to make out the shape of... wait, what?

 _Ironhide_.

The Autobot medic tilted his helm, trying to make sure that what his optics were telling him was actually true. But his conclusion was the exact same—it was Ironhide. That black form really was unmistakable.

What the _frag_ was he doing out here? Last Ratchet knew, the mech was in the med bay.

"Ironhide, report," Ratchet commed the Autobot weapons specialist as he transformed into vehicle mode, though he doubted he was going to get a response as Ironhide typically would not answer in the heat of battle.

It was worth a shot, anyway. But in the interim, Ratchet was not going to waste any time getting over there. He gunned his engine.

"Optimus, we have a situation," the medic then commed his leader. "I don't know exactly what's going on yet, but I could really use you over here."

" _On my way,_ " the Prime responded after only a few moments, also giving an ETA of two breems.

Why in the Pit could Ironhide not answer a comm so quickly? Ratchet wondered contemptuously, though it was really more out of concern for the weapons specialist than anything else. Primus, the mech could be dying and he would probably not even bother trying to comm anybody about it.

Ratchet transformed back into his bipedal mode, breaking into a run as he got about as close as he was going to be able to get to where Ironhide was. Primus, how steep was this rock face? There was not much Ratchet was going to be able to do from up here... He crept toward the edge, glancing down at the dizzying drop below.

Just as he feared, there was no way he would be able to make it down that.

He looked again at Ironhide, the black mech firing off a few shots at his attackers before turning to protect...

Primus, what was that?

Suddenly a well-timed shot from one of the Decepticons knocked Ironhide off his feet, giving Ratchet a clear view of exactly what it was Ironhide was trying to protect.

Ratchet stood frozen in disbelief when he saw it.

It was a sparkling.

But not just any sparkling... The tiny being, with those colors and that build, looked almost _identical_ to... Dare he even say it?

Himself.

Ratchet took a step back. How could that _possibly_ be?

But Ratchet could see the influence of the weapons specialist as well. That blunt face was clearly Ironhide's, and the large swatches of black also alluded to the weapons specialist, but other than that, the sparkling could not have possibly looked more like Ratchet.

It was a shock, to say the least. And still _not possible_ because he had never... well, Ratchet did not have time to dwell on that. Ironhide had gotten up but was quickly knocked to his feet again by a barrage of gunfire. He could not even escape without risk of the sparkling getting hurt.

"Optimus, Ironhide is protecting a sparkling," Ratchet updated his leader. "Get the 'Cons away from him as quickly as you can."

" _Understood. I will be arriving on-scene in moments_."

Ratchet let out a vent of air that he did not even know he was holding. Backup was almost there...

But no sooner had the chartreuse medic relaxed than he heard the sound of a jet engine roar overhead. He ducked instinctively, though he knew it would not do him much good out in the open like he was.

The jet streaked past him. But for the second time, Ratchet's relief was short-lived.

"Optimus!" he shouted through the comm. "Megatron is here!"

Optimus did not respond before the jet circled around, and realizing that either he or Ironhide was the target, Ratchet made a rash decision that he knew he would probably regret.

Before Megatron had time to reach either of them, Ratchet jumped off the edge.

He managed to keep his footing as his slid down the steep rock face. What exactly he was going to do when he reached the bottom he was not sure, but he had to do _something_. Even if he could cover the sparkling so Ironhide could fight back...

Suddenly a missile exploded beside him, knocking the medic off balance. He tumbled down the rock face, trying to brace himself just before hitting the...

Ratchet woke up with a start, glancing around and realizing that he was lying in his quarters and not on the bottom of a desert floor. His frame was shaking even as he pieced together that the entire thing must have just been a very bad dream. That was all, a dream.

Primus, it had seemed so _vivid_.

Ratchet wiped his brow, trying to calm himself. And he made a decision that he knew would prevent this sort of thing from happening.

He was _never_ drinking high-grade with Jazz again.


	12. Real

_Hello, peeps :) It's been a while I know, so let me apologize for the delay. I have been busy with some things (including getting over the stomach flu a few weeks ago - try not to get that) but now I'm back to doing all the things I usually do. So, let's get to the new chapter :D I hope you enjoy!  
_

* * *

Ratchet was relieved to have a few orns off before returning to his shift in the med bay. It was hard switching between the two, the lab and the med bay, but with the Autobots being so in need of both medical officers and scientists, it only made sense that Ratchet utilize his skills in both. So every ten orns or so, he would switch from one to the other.

Although sometimes, it felt like he then had to spend way too much time just 'catching up' on what had happened while he was gone.

Like he was doing right now.

Following Driver around as the blue medic detailed the most recent developments of all of the patients on this floor, Ratchet stopped beside the last room, which he knew to be Ironhide's.

Ratchet would be lying if he said he had not been curious about what was going on with Ironhide during those orns that he was gone in the lab, but he had also not heard anything noteworthy and so he had assumed that not much could have happened.

"And Ironhide," Driver said, grabbing the weapons specialist's chart from beside the door as he too stopped in the hallway. "There isn't much to say. We'll have the results from the analysis of his core coding at tomorrow morning's medical team meeting. Hopefully then we can correct the underlying issue rather than just monitoring him and waiting for it to happen again."

Ratchet nodded. "No signs of relapse?"

"None so far. His vitals have all remained stable," Driver detailed. "However, he did seem a bit agitated this morning. When I questioned him about it, he told me, 'with all due respect', that he didn't want to talk to me."

Ratchet cocked his helm. That was a new one from the weapons specialist, the jet black mech not usually being so blunt. "Hmm. Interesting."

"That it is," Driver agreed, smoothly handing the chart to Ratchet. "Maybe you'll have better luck with him."

/* * */

Ratchet stepped into Ironhide's room, not really sure what to expect. Although Ironhide was one of those mechs that had—at least in the past, anyway—always done well in the med bay, even he was bound to get tired of it at some point. Especially when all the tests they were doing so far indicated that there was nothing physically wrong with him.

But to Ratchet's surprise, the weapons specialist did not seem agitated or annoyed at all when Ratchet walked in. The mech was merely sitting up on the berth and had turned to face Ratchet when the medic entered, watching him with that same cool detachment that seemed to be his trademark.

"Hello, Ironhide," Ratchet greeted him, walking up to the berth and pulling a medical scanner out of subspace.

"Ratchet," was all Ironhide said in response, though he did seem at least mildly curious as to what the medic was doing.

However, Ratchet was not going to tell him unless the mech asked. For one, it was just a basic scan, pretty routine, and for two, it was part of Ratchet's effort to get the mech to talk more. Ironhide just was not particularly communicative and Ratchet wanted him to get out of that habit.

"The other medic already did all this," Ironhide pointed out as Ratchet began scanning him, having apparently reached a conclusion about what Ratchet was doing.

"I know, but I prefer to make my own observations," Ratchet responded dryly. "Besides, you never know when something might have changed."

Ironhide nodded but said nothing more, glancing away as he usually did during any kind of medical exam. The mech certainly did not seem to like being the center of attention no matter what the reason.

Ratchet spoke up again a few moments later, his tone lighter now. Perhaps Ironhide would do better if he was not so curt. It was hard though, because Ratchet just tended to be that way with his patients. But he tried to be different with Ironhide. "So, Driver told me that you seemed a bit anxious this morning. Is anything bothering you?"

Ironhide glanced at Ratchet momentarily but then looked away again, and it seemed to Ratchet that the black mech was either going to shrug off the question entirely or he was going to say something along the lines of 'I'm fine'.

"Ratchet, I... I don't know what to do," Ironhide responded, his voice strained and in stark contrast to how levelly he had spoken just moments earlier.

Ratchet paused. Had he asked just the the right question? Or was Ironhide just so close to breaking that it was not going be a fight to get him to admit that something was indeed wrong?

"What don't you know what to do about?" Ratchet asked softly, trying not to press too hard lest Ironhide revert back to his usual state of being non-communicative when it came to talking about himself.

"I keep seeing it, you know. Always different but always the same..."

Ratchet furrowed his brow. That made absolutely no sense. "Ironhide, what are you talking about?"

"Every night, I see it... It's always the same place, but it's never quite the same."

Ratchet was starting to piece it together. "The nightmares? Why didn't you tell me?"

Ironhide said nothing, glancing away as if deep in thought. "It wouldn't matter anyway. There's nothing you can do."

"Yes, there is," Ratchet contradicted him. "I can help you deal with that."

But Ironhide was firm. "No, you can't. No one can."

/* * */

It seemed that Ratchet's orn was only getting more and more strange. He had not managed to get anywhere farther with Ironhide, though he did document the unusual behavior on the weapons specialist's chart and made notes for a few possible treatment options. Nightmares like that, especially chronically recurring ones, would be enough to rattle any mech. Simply treating them as a symptom could greatly help Ironhide get back into his right frame of mind until they could pinpoint and treat the underlying cause.

" _Ratchet, did you discharge Ironhide from the med bay?_ "

The comm interrupted Ratchet unexpectedly, though he immediately recognized the voice as that of Red Alert.

"No I did not," the medic replied, a bit confused as to why anyone would be asking him that. "Why? What's going on?"

There was a pause, but then Red Alert answered. " _We can't find him._ _His room was empty and it_ _seems that he is_ _n'_ _t anywhere on this floor._ "

Ratchet stopped in his tracks, lifting a hand to his audial finial so he could listen better. "What? Have you checked his quarters?"

" _Affirmative. Security logs indicate that_ _no one has_ _been there_ _anytime_ _recently_."

 _Primus_. Had Ironhide really just... walked out of the med bay unnoticed? And disappeared?

"Let me know as soon as you hear anything," Ratchet instructed Red Alert. "I'm not sure where else to look."

" _Will do. Red Alert signing off._ "

Ratchet returned to his quarters, passing several joors of time just pacing back and forth and sitting on his berth though it did little to provide any comfort.

Where would Ironhide go? Ratchet got up and went to his, getting out a datapad and trying to think of anywhere that Ironhide had mentioned in the past. Not many came to mind, but he wrote down the ones he could think of.

Just then, a voice over the comm broke into his thoughts.

" _Ratchet?"_

It was not Red Alert, so Ratchet was not inclined to talk. "I am busy at the moment," he responded, hoping to bring the conversation to a swift end unless it was important. "If this is not an emergency—"

But the voice on the other end did not seem to pay any attention, interrupting him again. " _Ratchet_..."

Suddenly, Ratchet realized who it was.

"Primus," the medic cursed. "Ironhide, what's going on? Where have you been? This entire _base_ is looking for you."

" _There's nothing here, Ratch_."

Ratchet blinked, that not having been the answer he expected. "Nothing _where_? What are you talking about?"

When Ironhide did not respond, Ratchet pressed the mech harder for an answer. "Ironhide, _w_ _here_ are you?"

" _That place I told you about. The one I keep seeing. It's... the same._ "

Ratchet glanced to the side, every bit as confused as he was at the start of this conversation. "Okay, that's a start... And where exactly is that?"

There was a pause, but then Ironhide provided Ratchet with a set of coordinates.

"All right." Ratchet recorded the numbers, just to make he got everything right. "Stay _right_ where you are. I'm sending someone to get you..."

/* * */

Ratchet paced outside of Ironhide's room. Although he was technically off duty, _and_ he had technically been told that there was no need for him to come tonight since any medic could do the psychological evaluation that had been ordered by the head of security, Ratchet felt that it was his duty to find out what was going on. After all, this was his patient and he should have seen something like this coming earlier.

But he had not. Ironhide had wanted space, and rather than grant it to him but ensure that at least the most basic security measures were in place, Ratchet had simply trusted that nothing would go awry. He should have known better, since Ironhide's behavior had been becoming increasingly unpredictable.

They had sent Bulkhead and Ultra Magnus out to get the mech, Ultra Magnus having never really had any issues with him and Bulkhead and Ironhide having acknowledged to each other a while ago now that they had no hard feelings for anything that had happened in the past.

As if summoned by Ratchet's thoughts, the door to Ironhide's room opened and none other than Bulkhead stepped out into the hallway, quietly shutting the door behind him. For a mech that was oftentimes far more gregarious and outgoing than Ratchet preferred to be around, Bulkhead could also be surprisingly tactful and sensitive when the situation warranted it. He glanced at the medic understandingly, then lifted his arm but quickly put it back down as if he had planned to put a hand on the medic's shoulder but then remembered that Ratchet for the most part did not like to be touched.

"He's fine, Ratch," Bulkhead reassured him, not waiting for medic to ask how the weapons specialist was. "Not sure what he was doing out there, but he was fine."

Ratchet nodded, grateful for the information. He still felt responsible that this had happened at all, and honestly it could have turned out a lot worse.

Bulkhead must have read as much on Ratchet's face, because the green mech smiled slightly. "Hey, it's not your fault. Everything worked out fine."

Ratchet let out a sigh. "Maybe it did, but that still doesn't mean I didn't make a mistake. I should have known better."

Bulkhead smiled again. "Maybe, but mistakes are how we learn. We've all made them."

The chartreuse medic could not help but smile at that one. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

Bulkhead chuckled. "It's the best I've got. Hopefully it helps."

"Thank you, Bulkhead." Ratchet turned to face the door upon hearing Ultra Magnus also step into the hallway. He too shut the door behind him, then turned to face the medic.

"Ratchet," Ultra Magnus addressed him, "Ironhide appears to be completely stable, however if there's anything you want to check tonight, you can do so now. We're going to hold off on doing a full psych eval until tomorrow."

Ratchet nodded. "All right. I just want to do a quick reassessment, and make a few notes. It won't take long."

"Sounds prudent," Ultra Magnus responded. "Remember, you are off duty. Don't feel as if you need to stay much longer than that. We have other medics on staff should anything else come up."

"I'll remember that," Ratchet responded. He did not foresee anything else coming up, nor did he plan to stay long. "So I will see you in the morning?"

"Affirmative," Ultra Magnus replied. "Have a good night."

"Good night."

With that, the two Autobot warriors departed and Ratchet was left alone.

/* * */

It felt like déjà vu when Ratchet stepped into Ironhide's room for the second time that orn. Except this time, Ratchet was tired—both physically and mentally—and he did not feel the need to try to present himself in the detached, unruffled way that a medic usually would. After all, he technically was not working.

That did not mean he was going to be short or gruff—it just meant he was not going to go to great lengths to hide the fact that he was fatigued. In his field, any sign of weakness was often perceived as a sign incompetence, but with Ironhide it was different. The mech had seen him worse-off than this. He understood.

Ratchet saw Ironhide lying on the berth with a hand covering his face. He was clearly tired as well, though he also did not appear to be trying to get into recharge yet.

Ratchet walked up to the berth. "Hey, Ironhide," he greeted the larger mech. "How are you doing?"

Ironhide moved his hand from his face so he could look at Ratchet. He really looked tired now, his expression dull and lifeless, but he still gave Ratchet his full attention.

"Fine, thanks," the weapons specialist replied. "It was nice to get out for a bit."

Ratchet had to suppress a smile. "I'm sure it was, but you can't do it like that. What if something had happened? No one would have known where you were."

"I had to see if there was anything out there," Ironhide responded. "Maybe now my processor will leave me alone about it."

"All of this just for that? You even gave _me_ a scare, you know."

Ratchet did not mention that it was mainly because Ironhide seemed mentally unstable. It was hard to say what _any_ mech in that condition might do, or what danger they could potentially put themselves or others in.

Ironhide turned to better face the medic. "I scared you? I'm sorry."

Ratchet brushed it off. "It's fine. You just have to tell someone before you disappear like that, particularly when you're here."

"No one ever cared before."

That caught Ratchet off guard, though he immediately knew that Ironhide was referring to his time with Decepticons. It must have been a truly demoralizing experience, knowing that no one else cared about what happened to you.

"Well, I do," the medic replied. "We all do."

Ratchet put a hand on the weapons specialist's shoulder, who not only tolerated it, but also lifted his own scarred hand and put it over Ratchet's.

Ratchet was surprised at that—Ironhide was anything but the touchy-feely type—but what surprised the medic even more was again that strong sense of déjà vu.

Déjà vu of a _dream_ he had had.

Was that even possible? Or was his processor playing tricks on him? Ratchet paused, not sure what to make of what he was feeling right then, but then Ironhide spoke up, tightening his grip as if he could read the medic's mind.

"Ratchet, please..."

Now Ratchet froze. What in the Pit was going on? Was this even real? It certainly _seemed_ real.

"Ironhide..." Ratchet began, not even sure where he was going with it. "Listen... I..."

But he could not think of what he was going to say. He only knew what he _felt_ , and he also knew what he should—or rather, _should_ _not_ —do.

Just because it happened in a dream did not mean he should go through with it here. This was _reality_.

Right? Or was it not?

"Ironhide, is this real?" Ratchet asked, feeling foolish for asking but becoming less and less sure of himself the more he thought about it.

The weapons specialist squeezed his had gently. "Let me show you..."

/* * */

Ratchet hardly wanted to wake up. He felt like he had not recharged nearly long enough, he had a tinge of a headache, and his back was somehow painfully stiff, but his processor was nagging him that it was already past the time when he usually got up.

Did he have any obligations so early this orn anyway? Maybe he could postpone the inevitable for even a few more breems...

No, wait, he could not—he had to go to that early morning medical team meeting, and if he did not leave soon he was going to be late.

Not that it made it any easier to get up. Primus, why was he so tired? His entire frame felt heavy, as if his armor was made out of lead or he had been drugged.

But neither of which were very likely, and after a few more moments of stubborn opposition, the chartreuse medic reluctantly opened his optics, confused for a moment when the sterile white walls that greeted him were _not_ those of his own quarters.

Ratchet blinked, the vague memories from the night before flooding to the forefront of his processor as he suddenly realized _why_ he was sitting on the floor with his back against a hard wall—the latter part at least explaining why his back hurt.

And the former part?

The medic covered his face with a hand. The former part... Well, that was evidently the result of...

Ratchet forcibly stopped himself, taking a few deep vents. Had he _really_ done that? Or could it be just a remnant of another one of those strange dreams? He dropped his hand to his side and looked around for the weapons specialist, whom he spotted a short distance away.

Ironhide was also sitting on the floor and had apparently woken up before Ratchet. He was staring blankly at the empty space in front of him, his back against the front of the berth instead of the wall and as such he was sitting perpendicular to the medic. Also, he either he did not notice Ratchet stir or he simply did not react to it.

Ratchet took a moment to check his chronometer and data logs, which only confirmed his fear that what had transpired between him and Ironhide was indeed reality and most certainly _not_ a dream.

Primus, what had he done?

It was wrong on so many levels, first and foremost being that Ironhide was his _patient_. Second was the fact that the weapons specialist had not seemed to be in his right frame of mind lately and so no one could be sure if he could make sound decisions, and third was the fact that the mech was _currently_ admitted to the med bay for a _serious_ medical condition. Ratchet should have known better than to have _ever_ gone along with something like this, no matter whose idea it was.

But before the chartreuse medic had a chance to say anything, Ironhide spoke up.

"Ratchet, I'm sorry."

The words were spoken so clearly, but with so much regret—and even pain—that it gave Ratchet pause. Ironhide still had not turned to look at him, but Ratchet could see some deep-seated emotion written across the black mech's frame. He could not pinpoint what it was exactly, but to the Autobot medic, Ironhide almost looked... ashamed? Guilty?

Or maybe the emotion was not shame or guilt, but fear? What that fear would be of, Ratchet had no idea.

"Ironhide," he said softly, though the mech still seemed to flinch at his voice, "there's nothing to apologize for."

Really, there was not. Not from Ironhide's standpoint anyway, as far as Ratchet was concerned.

Still, the weapons specialist only continued to stare at the ground in front of him. "I'm just... I'm not ready for this," he continued, his gaze shifting to the far wall. "I'm sorry."

Ratchet pursed his lip plates, glancing down at the floor and nodding slightly at Ironhide's words even though he knew the mech would likely not see the gesture. There was probably not much more that Ironhide was going to say, and Ratchet himself was at a loss for words. He was not sure what to think—not that he could think extremely clearly at the moment, anyway—or what he could or should say, or even what he was feeling at that moment. It all seemed to be mixed together in some kind of jumbled-up mess in his processor.

But Ratchet could organize his thoughts later. Right now he knew he had to say _something_ to the weapons specialist, the mech was obviously feeling very deeply conflicted about what had just happened. And based on what he had said, Ratchet suspected that the mech needed to hear something to the effect that none of this had to go any further.

As far as how exactly Ratchet could word that, really only one way came to mind.

"It's all right," he said. "No one has to know."

* * *

 _Well, there we have it ;) I hope you all liked the extra-long chapter, and that me putting it together rather haphazardly didn't detract too much from it. Anyway, thanks as always for reading and I hope to see you in the next chapter! (Any guesses as to what might happen? Can private matters stay private? I'd love to hear your thoughts!)  
_


	13. Secret and Not-so-secret

_Well, another chapter! I wish I had this entire thing written so I could just post new chapters every week, but it's a journey. Stories definitely take on lives of their own! Anyway, I hope you enjoy :)  
_

* * *

Ratchet had just enough time to get back to his quarters to grab the few things he needed—namely his datapad, a few notes scribbled on a few charts, and the medical kit that he liked to have with him at the beginning of his shift—before he headed to the other side of the building toward the small conference room for the medical team meeting, skipping his usual visit to the wash racks in the morning.

Not that it really mattered. It was not like he had been out in the field at all last orn, so his armor did not really need a wash.

Ratchet was already feeling that nagging pull of having not recharged well enough, though. Usually, he was very good about making sure that he retired to his quarters at a reasonable time, so that he would not have to start the orn tired. But this orn, he was just going to have to deal with it.

That, and the lingering confusion regarding exactly how the events of last night had transpired. Nevermind that the medic himself may have acted rashly—he did not even want to analyze that part right now—but why had Ironhide acted the way he did?

It did not make sense, really. Ironhide—weapons specialist extraordinaire, former Decepticon commander, and fiercely independent and reserved veteran warrior who never seemed to have any need for even the most distant of friendships—had never taken any kind of particular interest in Ratchet, and he had most definitely _never_ been affectionate toward him. Ratchet was not sure if Ironhide even liked him as a mech.

Sure, the weapons specialist had gone far out of his way to save Ratchet when he had been captured by the Decepticons, but for all the medic knew that was just because Ironhide seemed to have a very strong moral compass. The black veteran probably would have done exactly the same for anyone else.

And as far as any other interactions Ratchet had had with the mech, Ironhide was always distant, detached, and even fairly uncommunicative. Ratchet never knew what was going on the mech's processor—no one really did—and the former Decepticon seemed to prefer it that way.

Oh, what Ratchet would give for even a glimpse into Ironhide's thoughts...

Suddenly realizing that he was standing in front of the conference room door, the Autobot medic paused for a moment. He did not really want to go to this meeting, but he had an obligation to. The success of the medical team depended on all members working together as a cohesive unit, and he could not very well miss the meeting for no good reason, even if he wanted more than anything to have this orn off to figure things out.

But such was life, and it would hardly be the worst Ratchet had been through.

Finally deciding it was time to stop delaying the inevitable, Ratchet cracked open the door and stepped into the conference room. He noticed that most of the other mechs were already there. Ultra Magnus was on the far side, and although he was not a medical officer by any means, he was Optimus Prime's second-in-command and as such he usually attended routine meetings such as this just so he could keep informed on the more mundane goings-on amongst the Autobot forces, to better advise Optimus if needed. The Prime himself was not present, as Ratchet had expected. Next to Ultra Magnus was Red Alert, the head of security, and flanking those two mechs were the senior medics and the few field medics who were—like Ratchet—not on a field assignment at the moment. Ratchet sat down in an empty chair near the end of the table, secretly glad that he was at least not the last one to arrive. Usually, he was one of the first.

"Sorry I'm late," a suave voice from behind Ratchet called, soon followed by the unmistakable sound of Jazz shuffling into the room. Usually Jazz was on time, if only by a breem or two. Or a few seconds.

"You've still got time," Red Alert jested from the across the table. "There's still a half-breem yet."

Jazz smiled widely. "That's plenty of time," he replied as he sat down next to Ratchet.

"All right, are we ready to get started?"

Ratchet propped his head up on his hands as the meeting began. The lingering confusion had developed into a headache, and the bright overhead lights were only making it worse. He was reminded of how nice it would be to be somewhere with dimmer lighting.

"You all right, Ratch?" Jazz asked quietly after a few breems.

Ratchet let out a sigh, covering his face with his hands for a moment. "I'm fine. Why?"

"You look a little tired," the silver minibot replied, with concern but not condescension. "Must not've recharged all that well?"

"You could say that," Ratchet replied, making a conscious effort not to sound as gruff as he usually did. Jazz always meant well, and even if Ratchet did not really want to talk about it, he also did not want to be rude when the silver mech was just trying to make sure that everything was all right.

"Bummer," Jazz responded, shifting his weight to get more comfortable in his chair. "Hopefully tonight you'll recharge better."

Ratchet could not help but chuckle at the irony of that. It was the first time in how long that he had not recharged? "I'm sure I will. And it can't come soon enough."

/* * */

 _ONE ORN EARLIER_

Ironhide stood with his back to the wind. He had been here, in this very same spot, several decaorns ago. He had not been very pleased about it then either—quite the opposite, actually—but this was what happened when one did things they later regretted.

Ironhide did not even remember doing it, but he was certain that it had happened. After all, there was no other way that anyone could have found out.

And Starscream never bluffed. Not when it came to extortion, at least.

Ironhide thought back to that mediocre firefight on that sunny orn in the desert, the one where he had been blindsided and shot in the back. He had said that he did not know who had snuck up behind him, but in reality he did know. He had known it as soon as the lanky mech strutted up to him, grabbing the still-incapacitated mech by the back of the head and speaking quickly into his audial finials.

" _Meet me at the following coordinates at approximately 1100 joors tomorrow,"_ the Decepticon air commander had told him. " _You're going to want to hear what I have to say._ "

And with that, Starscream had left him.

So Ironhide waited. Then, when the time came, he made the drive out here and waited for Starscream to show up. Like he was doing now.

A thump behind Ironhide him drew Ironhide's thoughts back to his surroundings. He did not turn around, as he already knew who had just landed in the sand only a handful of steps behind him.

"You're late," Ironhide said flatly, looking at the ground in front of him but not really seeing it.

"Traffic," came the answer from behind him, though he could not tell if it was meant to be sarcastic or not. Starscream's voice always sounded sarcastic.

Ironhide turned around the face the silver flier whose red optics seemed to be burning into him like a plasma ray, if only to make the conversation easier. "So what do you want this time, Starscream?"

Starscream stood where he was for a moment, then smiled that fake smile. "I was just curious how things are going. It's been a while, don't you think?"

"It takes time," Ironhide replied, taking care not to let his frustration show through. "I can't just look it up on a datapad."

"My patience is wearing thin," Starscream replied, glaring at Ironhide for a moment before breaking his gaze and stepping off to the side to circle around him. "Don't you know that I do have other things to do?"

"I've done everything you asked," Ironhide replied, his voice still as steady as the unrelenting breeze that persisted over this part of the desert.

"You made yourself sick," Starscream replied. "Almost offlined yourself, actually. I know that _I_ didn't tell you to do that."

Ironhide answered over his shoulder, not bothering to try to follow Starscream's movements. "It was the only way they wouldn't question anything. What other choice did I have?"

"Can you still do what you need to to finish the job?" Starscream questioned him, stopping to stand in his field of view again.

"I can," Ironhide replied, though he chose not to elaborate any further. He just wanted this meeting over with.

Starscream did no look convinced, narrowing his optics as if to evaluate him. "Are you sure?"

"You're not my handler," Ironhide bit back, "so what difference does it make to you?"

Stepping back in the sand, Starscream laughed at that. "Fair enough. I'm not your handler. Do what you agreed to do, I'll have no reason to keep tabs on you."

Without even waiting for a reply, the silver Decepticon transformed and took off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Ironhide covered up his optics with his arm until most of it cleared, then he paused to think.

He needed to going on this. He could only put it off for so much longer.

But how?

Ironhide was not sure, but he did know that he could go back home and think about it there. He opened up a private comm link, and tried to get a response from someone who he knew would answer.

"Ratchet..."

"There's nothing here, Ratch..."

* * *

 _So, I was reading somewhere that it is actually better not to hide information from your readers, and I wanted to ask what you guys think - do you like the suspense of not knowing something, or would you rather know all the details up front? Have you read any fics where either method added to (or subtracted from) the story? I would love to hear your thoughts on it!  
_


	14. Looking Up

_Well, Chapter 14 :) I will say that I'm probably not going to be naming chapters anymore once I get done with this story, mainly because it's not really that easy for me to come up with them (I know, it probably shouldn't really be *that* much of a task, but I tend to overthink everything). Besides, do chapter titles really mean much anyway? Or are they more like mini-spoilers? (More for people who write good chapter titles; not me).  
_

 _Also, I'm afraid that I may have lost some people in the last few chapters (which is okay, I understand that it happens) but since I am still relatively new to the world of fanfiction writing (and fiction writing in general), I thought I would ask what you guys and gals like and don't like - constructive criticism is always welcome :) And if you don't feel like putting it in a review, PM works too. What do you like to see, or see more of, in a story? Or what would you like to see less? Is this plot harder to follow than 'The Catalyst'? I'd love to hear from you!  
_

 _But even if I've lost some, stories have to be told - so if you're still reading, I hope you enjoy this one!_

* * *

"So, about Ironhide..."

Finally, the part of the meeting Ratchet had been waiting for. And although he had been paying attention to the other medical cases as diligently as he could, Ironhide's was the only one that had been a true mystery. All of the others were fairly straight-forward.

It was not very often that Ratchet found himself stumped, but Ironhide's case had done just that. It seemed that nothing was ever simple where the weapons specialist was concerned.

"What we found," the analyst continued, his yellow armor glinting under the light, "was that a number of parameters in his core coding had been altered, seemingly randomly, and with no tag to indicate exactly when or by whom the alterations had been done by. We can tell they're fairly recent, but that's about all."

Jazz spoke up next. "So that's what caused the spark attack?"

The yellow mech nodded. "Yes. It was a simple case of the wrong parameter at the right time, causing a critical exception that his systems couldn't compensate for."

"So," Ratchet began, internally berating himself for not having paid attention to what the yellow mech's name was, "whoever did this could have been trying to offline him, without us even being aware of it?"

"Actually, we believe it more likely that the modifications were self-inflicted. You said yourself in your latest report that there had been no Decepticon tampering."

"I said there was no evidence of it," Ratchet corrected the mech, "not that it didn't happen. What possible reason could he have for doing something like that to himself?"

"Because that's what Decepticons do," one of the other medics replied. "They come up with plans intended to deceive us so that they can accomplish some goal, and maybe he just took it too far."

"He's not a Decepticon anymore," Ratchet retorted, "and he wouldn't do that."

Red Alert, the Autobots' head of security, spoke up at that. "Ratchet, why are you defending him?"

"I'm not defending him!" Ratchet said it louder than he had intended to, and he suddenly realized that everyone in the room was looking at him. The medic cleared his throat, speaking softer now. "I'm just saying, it doesn't make any sense."

"It doesn't," Ultra Magnus agreed, "but we still have to entertain the possibility that there could be some... underlying reason for Ironhide to do this. I want him off the battlefield until further notice, and he is not to be granted access to anything more secure than what we allow the public to see."

Red Alert nodded. "Consider it done."

"And as far as medical goes," Ultra Magnus stated as he turned to Ratchet, "all the offending parameters need to be reset to their defaults. I'm assuming a copy of the analyst's report will be in Ironhide's file. Otherwise, is there anything else we need to go over?"

Ratchet said nothing, though he was a bit upset about Ironhide being taken off the battlefield. The Autobots desperately needed a skilled fighter like Ironhide if there was ever going to be any hope of this Pit-forsaken war being over. And as far as losing access to anything any other Autobot troop would have access to, Ratchet was pretty sure that if Ironhide had intended to destroy the Autobots, he would have already done so.

But clearly not everyone agreed.

Ultra Magnus stood. "Then we're done. Dismissed."

Ratchet likewise stood up, but he quickly turned to leave so no one would have a chance to talk to him. If he had to deal with any more pressure this orn, he would probably end up saying something he regretted. He stepped out into the hallway, relieved at least that the other medics seemed keen to return to their own work and they did not make try to make conversation as they passed by. Ratchet himself stopped by the wall, taking a moment to settle his processor.

It was still ludicrous, acting as if Ironhide was a danger to the Autobots but then not bothering to place him in the brig. If they were really that worried, then why not take the extra precaution? At least it would be more honest. Better then pretending that they trusted him but then stripping away his access to pretty much everything. They were probably going to put the weapons specialist under surveillance too.

Slag it, would they be watching Ratchet as well? Simply because he had defended him? It was ridiculous. He knew Ironhide better than anyone else in that room—the mech was not a threat.

It made Ratchet's processor ache.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Ratchet startled. He had not even heard Jazz approach, yet the mech was standing right in front of him.

"I'm fine, just a bit stressed out right now," Ratchet responded, glad that he did at least have one mech whom he could confide in. Jazz had always been there for him, and the silver minibot never judged or jumped to conclusions. "You ever feel like everything always has to pile on you at once? Like you just can't catch a break?"

"Sometimes," Jazz replied. "It sucks, that's for sure."

"It's frustrating." Ratchet covered his optics with his hands, the overhead lights suddenly becoming almost painfully bright.

"Hey, why don't we sit down?" Jazz suggested. "You're not looking so hot."

"I'm fine," Ratchet said again, though right at that very moment—and as if betraying the chartreuse medic—Ratchet's processor blew a fuse.

"Frag it!" the medic cursed as he fell to one knee, though he managed not to completely lose his balance.

"Whoa," Jazz said playfully as reached out to steady him, fully aware of what had just happened. "Take it easy, Doc."

Ratchet still kept his optics covered. "Primus, would you stop calling me that?"

"Only if you stop calling me Primus," Jazz retorted, trying to lighten the mood.

"Very funny," Ratchet shot back, though there really was no anger in his voice.

Jazz smiled. It was always hard to tell if trying to be funny would work with Ratchet, because it did not always, but this time it seemed to. Or at the very least, it did not seem to make anything worse.

"How about a trip to the med bay, or would you rather I just call another medic?" Jazz asked. It was an easy procedure, but not exactly one that Ratchet could perform on himself.

"Just... call Jolt," Ratchet responded. "And here is fine. I would rather the entire base didn't see me."

"Hey, we all get stressed. It happens. But I'll have him come here."

Ratchet stayed doubled over. Primus, for being something so insignificant, it hurt like the Pit. "Thanks, Jazz."

"You bet." The silver minibot opened a private comm, summoning the medic that usually ended up treating Ratchet when the chartreuse mech's stubbornness did not get in the way.

"What's going on?"

Jazz looked up to see Ultra Magnus walking toward them, Red Alert not far behind. Apparently they had just now stepped into the hallway from the conference room.

Jazz held out his hand to stop them. "Just give him some space," he said politely. "We've got this under control."

Ratchet wanted to look up but he decided not to, if only so he would not have to see Ultra Magnus and Red Alert looking down at him like he was a malfunctioning drone.

They probably would not, Ratchet thought. He was probably just being over-sensitive because he was embarrassed.

"All right," Ultra Magnus replied to Jazz. Then he turned to Ratchet, which Ratchet only knew because he could hear that the mech's voice was directed at him. "Feel better, Ratchet."

But Ratchet still did not look up. Too much embarrassment. "Thank you, Magnus."

Red Alert said nothing and soon the two mechs shuffled away, leaving Ratchet alone with Jazz again.

"You know, Jazz," Ratchet said, looking up only to find the lights too bright again, "I'm pretty sure that at least this orn can only get better."

Jazz smiled, despite the fact that Ratchet could not see it. "Ah, look who's being positive. Must be my bubbly personality rubbing off on you."

"Don't push your luck, by the way," Ratchet retorted. "I can still kick your aft."

Jazz chuckled, ignoring the idle threat and lightly squeezing his friend's shoulder. "Jolt will be here shortly, by the way."

"Good." Ratchet let out a sigh of relief. "It won't be too soon."

/* * */

Despite everything, Ratchet was not very much late for the start of his shift—which was pretty impressive considering all the scrap that had transpired in the last not-even-twelve orns. He had felt like he was running on empty by the time he even got to the med bay, though he did manage to take a break mid-orn to go get some energon. He felt quite a bit better after that.

Then it had been several more hours of checking on patients, updating charts, and generally trying to get certain scrap-headed mechs to quit doing stupid stuff. And by 'certain scrap-headed mechs' he meant the twins, and by 'stupid stuff' he meant... well, he was not even sure what he meant because he could not get a straight answer out of either one of them. But he was sure it was some foolish antic, considering that neither of them were on duty this orn.

And then, it came time to check on Ironhide.

Ironhide was Ratchet's last patient of the orn, which was a relief because it meant that he would soon be able to retire to his quarters, but it was also a source of stress because Ratchet did not really know how this interaction was going to go. Even stepping into the room felt painfully awkward to the chartreuse medic.

But he did it, and shut the door behind him. Ironhide glanced up as he always did, but then he looked away.

He must have been uncomfortable as well.

Ratchet cleared his throat and walked across the room, not seeing the need to offer a greeting when all it would serve to do was make the situation more awkward. A stiff greeting that would elicit a stiff response. In this case, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding that silence was better.

Ratchet walked over to the counter beside the berth where Ironhide was sitting upright. The black mech was looking at the floor, venting normally—because Ratchet could not help but notice things like that—but he seemed to stiffen when the medic approached.

Or was Ratchet just imagining it? Primus, he did not know what to think of anything anymore...

So he chose to ignore it. After all, Ironhide was probably equally stressed.

Ratchet began rummaging through the drawers under the counter, setting aside a few things that were in his way and then continuing to look through the equipment.

"Ratchet," the weapons specialist spoke up then, his voice soft as if he was afraid of completely shattering the silence, "if I may say something?"

The medic idly grabbed a medical scanner from one of the drawers, turning it on with the flip of a switch. "Go ahead."

"I just wanted to say again," Ironhide began, sounding slightly more sure of himself than he had that morning, "that I apologize. I never should have put you in that position."

Ratchet pursed his lip plates but he did not look up, merely continuing to fiddle with the controls on the scanner. "It's fine. We're past it."

Ironhide nodded. It was a rather short reply from the medic, but Ironhide did not want to push the issue.

"So I'm sure you've been informed that your core coding needs to be reset to its default values," Ratchet said next, effectively changing the subject. "I can do that for you now, or if you would prefer to wait until morning or have someone else do it, we can postpone it until tomorrow."

Ironhide had been informed. "Tomorrow is fine."

"Tomorrow it is, then," Ratchet responded, noting that Ironhide did not specify whether he merely wanted to wait until morning or if he actually did wish to have a different mech perform the intervention. Not that it really mattered as far as Ratchet was concerned, but the medic could not help but feel that Ironhide's trust in him had eroded for some reason, which pained him greatly because it had taken so long to gain that trust in the first place.

Ironhide had always been suspicious, skeptical, and rather non-communicative with most other mechs, which was not surprising considering how long he had been with the Decepticons, but Ratchet had been able to get him to talk, and Ironhide had even confided in him on his own accord, but lately things had been different. The weapons specialist had become rather withdrawn, even more so than he had been as a prisoner, and so far Ratchet had not been able to pinpoint the reason or event that caused it.

In fact, Ironhide's apology was the most the mech had said to him in decaorns that was not an answer to a direct question.

Ratchet would have to think through it, to try to find out what had changed. He knew that simply asking would not work, as Ratchet had practically been able to feel the tension rolling off of the black mech's armor. Ironhide was not going to talk about it.

Not tonight, anyway. And Ratchet was tired.

"Well, everything looks fine," Ratchet said, turning off the scanner when it showed no anomalies. "First Aid will be on duty if there is anything else you need tonight, otherwise you can expect to be discharged sometime tomorrow. Have a good night."

Ironhide nodded his understanding and Ratchet turned to leave, half-expecting but also half-not expecting Ironhide to say good night in response. The weapons specialist said nothing and Ratchet exited the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Finally free of his work obligations, Ratchet headed back to his quarters. He had been waiting for this moment the _entire_ orn. And although thoughts of recharging and his berth were at the forefront of his processor, Ratchet still found himself wondering...

Had he done something wrong at some point, those however-many decaorns ago when this all started? Or had Ironhide heard something about him?

But what was there to hear? Nothing, surely...

Or was Ratchet just being too self-absorbed, thinking this had to do with him?

Maybe he needed to just go to his quarters and focus on his own well-being, rather than worrying about anyone else. After all, there was no one else to look after him and he did not have the burden of looking after anyone else, so why worry?

The worry could wait until he was back on shift.


End file.
